UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


POEMS  OF 
SIXTY-FIVE  YEAKS 


POEMS  OF 
SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

BY 

BLLEEY  CHAINING 


SELECTED   AND   EDITED   BY 

F.  B.  SANBORN 


If  my  bark  sinks,  't  is  to  another  sea  " 


PHILADELPHIA   AND    CONCORD 
JAMES  H.  BENTLEY 

1902 


UNIVERSITY  OF 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
F.  B.  SANBORN  OF  CONCORD 


THE  DEVINNE  PRESS 


Dear  Reader  !  if  my  verse  could  say 

How  in  my  blood  that  Nature  runs 
Which  manifesteth  no  decay— 

The  fire  that  lights  a  thousand  suns ; 
How  thou  and  I  are  freely  lent 
A  little  of  that  element : 

If  I  could  say  what  landscape  says, 

And  human  pictures  say  far  more— 
If  I  could  twine  the  sunny  days 
With  the  rich  colors  on  the  floor 
Of  daily  Love— how  thou  and  I 
Might  be  refreshed  with  charity  ! 

How  grateful  is  the  softened  smile 
Of  winter  sunset  o'er  the  snow  ! 
And  blessed  is  our  spheral  isle 

That  through  the  unknown  void  must  go  ; 
The  current  of  that  stream  is  sweet 
Where  many  waters  closely  meet. 


The  reader  is  indebted  for  this  volume 
to  two  friends  of  poesy  and  admirers 
of  Channing's  verse,  James  H.  Bentley 
and  Henry  S.  Borneman  of  Philadel 
phia,  who  in  the  summer  of  1901  pro 
posed  to  Mr.  Channing  and  the  editor 
the  publication  of  such  a  volume  at  their 
expense.  The  poet  accepted  the  gen 
erous  proposal,  and  the  editor  under 
took  to  make  the  selections,  chiefly 
from  the  published  volumes.  But  by 
the  bequest  of  Mr.  Channing  he  became 
the  owner  of  his  manuscripts  and 
revised  editions,  and  has  made  much 
use  of  both  those  sources  in  this  work. 
F.  B.  S. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION xiii 

EARLY  POEMS 

The  Spider xvii 

The  Byfield  Hills,  1836 3 

Sunday  Poem       4 

A  Sonnet  to  Joyce  Heth,  Centenarian,  1835  .  13 

The  Gifts 14 

Life 15 

The  Stars 16 

A  Poet's  Love 18 

Ode.     The  River 20 

The  Evening  of  a  November  Day ....  22 

To  Clio 24 

Sea-Song 25 

The  Harbor 26 

The  Benighted  Traveller 27 

Pictures 28 

Willingness 30 

Among  the  Lenox  Hills 31 

ix 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Companionship 32 

The  Seasons 33 

The  Sibyl  to  her  Lover 36 

October 39 

Una 41 

The  Poor 43 

Nature 44 

The  Sea 45 

Death 46 

Sonnets  of  Love  and  Aspiration     ....  49 

The  Sleeping  Child,  1843 54 

England,  in  Affliction,  1843 55 

The  Beggar's  Wish,  1843 58 

A  Poet's  Hope 59 

POEMS  OF  YOUTHFUL  FAMILY  LIFE 

New  England 65 

The  Wanderer 76 

The  Concord  Sexton's  Story 78 

The  Mountains 84 

Hymn  of  the  Earth 86 

To  the  Poets 87 

The  Woodman 88 

The  Poet 92 

x 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Kepentance 94 

The  Lonely  Road 96 

The  Barren  Moors 99 

Field-birds'  Nests 101 

The  Arched  Stream 103 

Poems  of  the  Heart,  i-xin 104 

Ode  to  Emerson 

POEMS  OF  MATURITY  AND  AGE 

The  Poet's  Dejection 131 

Murillo's  Magdalen 135 

Sleepy  Hollow,  1855 137 

The  New  England  Farm-house 139 

Truro,  on  Cape  Cod 141 

Truro  :  A  Kegret 144 

The  Portraits,    i-x 147 

Epithalamium,  1862 166 

To-morrow  and  To-morrow  and  To-morrow  168 

The  Ice  Ravine 169 

Memories  of  Fanny  McGregor 171 

The  Late-found  Friend,  1901 173 

The  Sage,  1897 175 

Welcome  to  Thee  not  Gone  .  .177 


XI 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION 


[FTER  arrangements  were  made  for  the 
publication  of  this  volume,  with  the 
approval  of  the  poet,  though  without 
his  active  cooperation,  and  while  the 
earlier  poems  were  copying  for  its 
pages,  he  fell  ill,  at  the  age  of  a  little  more  than 
eighty-three,  and,  with  a  confinement  to  his  north 
western  chamber  of  but  three  weeks,  passed  from 
earth,  with  little  suffering  and  no  struggle— too 
soon  to  give  his  friends  the  publishers  the  pleasure 
of  showing  him  this  completed  book.  Yet  this  sad 
fact  releases  the  editor  from  those  restrictions  of 
delicacy  that  would  otherwise  have  checked  his  pen 
in  writing  the  short  biography  which  so  secluded 
xiii 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

a  poet  must  need  in  coming  before  the  grandchil 
dren  of  those  who  first  welcomed  his  verses,  in  the 
years  before  1840. 

William  Ellery  Channing  was  born  in  Bedford 
Street,  Boston,  a  few  rods  from  the  birthplace  of 
Waldo  Emerson,  November  29,  1818.  He  was  the 
son  of  Dr.  Walter  Channing,  an  eminent  Boston 
physician,  and  of  his  first  wife,  Barbara  Perkins, 
daughter  of  Samuel  Gardiner  Perkins,  grand 
daughter  of  Stephen  Higginson,  and  niece  of  Colonel 
Thomas  H.  Perkins,  long  the  typical  merchant 
prince  of  Boston.  His  mother  dying  early,  Ellery 
was  brought  up  for  some  years  by  his  great-aunt 
Mrs.  Bennett  Forbes  of  Milton,  mother  of  John  M. 
Forbes,  a  later  merchant  prince  of  Boston.  At  an 
age  earlier  than  boys  usually  go  to  such  a  school  he 
was  sent  a  hundred  miles  from  home  to  the  famous 
Round  Hill  School  of  Dr.  Cogswell  and  George  Ban 
croft  (the  future  historian)  at  Northampton,  where 
he  remained  three  years,  among  boys  generally  much 
older  than  himself,  of  whom  the  historian  Motley 
and  Thomas  Gold  Appleton  may  be  specially 
named.  He  completed  his  preparation  for  Har 
vard  at  the  Boston  schools,  where  the  late  William 
Maxwell  Evarts  and  the  celebrated  surgeon  Henry 
Bigelow  were  his  companions ;  but  studied  for  a 
time  in  the  private  school  of  Mr.  Hubbard  in  Brook- 
line,  where  for  a  few  weeks  in  1831  Charles  Sumner 
xiv 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION 

was  one  of  his  teachers.  Entering  at  Harvard  in 
the  summer  of  1834,  a  year  after  Henry  Thoreau, 
and  in  the  same  class  with  James  Russell  Lowell  and 
his  own  distant  cousin  Richard  Henry  Dana,  Ellery 
Channing  remained  only  a  few  months,  and  never 
rejoined  his  class.  He  spent  much  time  at  this 
period  among  his  relatives  and  acquaintances  at 
the  romantic  farm-house  known  as  Curzon's  Mill, 
in  the  angle  formed  by  the  Merrimac  and  its  slen 
der  tributary  the  Artichoke  River,  four  miles  west 
of  Newburyport  ;  and  this  was  a  favorite  resort  of 
his  in  after  years.  Some  of  his  early  poems,  printed 
by  Emerson  in  1840,  describe  the  scenery  of  that 
region— particularly  The  Eiver. 

His  earliest  poem  to  be  printed,  however,  came 
out  in  the  New  England  Magazine  of  October,  1835, 
before  he  was  seventeen  years  old,  and  without  his 
knowledge,  having  been  sent  by  a  friend  to  Park 
Benjamin,  then  editing  that  Boston  monthly.  This 
poem,  The  Spider,  in  a  favorite  metre  of  Emerson's, 
appeared  in  Channing's  first  series  of  poems  in  1843, 
and  was  one  of  the  counts  in  the  indictment  which 
Lowell  brought  against  Channing  and  Thoreau  in 
his  Fable  for  Critics.  There  is  in  it  a  remarkable 
vein  of  thought,  glance  of  observation,  and  easy 
mastery  of  verse,  which  promised  much  for  the 
maturity  of  so  felicitous  an  author.  Its  publication 
in  the  last  volume  of  this  early  Boston  monthly 

xv 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE   YEARS 

(whose  editor,  Park  Benjamin,  in  the  following  year 
transformed  it  into  the  American  Monthly  Maga 
zine,  issued  in  New  York)  brought  Channing  into 
the  company  of  an  older  and  more  successful  writer, 
Hawthorne.  In  that  final  issue  of  the  New  England 
Magazine  Hawthorne  had  four  tales  and  sketches, 
—  The  Old  Maid  in  the  Winding -sheet.  The  Vision  of 
the  Fountain,  and  The  Devil  in  Manuscript,  besides  an 
account  of  the  White  Mountains  and  of  canal -boat 
ing.  But  there  was  no  acquaintance  with  the  re 
cluse  Hawthorne  until  he  married  and  took  up  his 
abode  in  the  Old  Manse,  where  he  and  Channing 
became  close  friends. 

The  Spider,  when  included  by  his  friend  Samuel 
Gray  Ward  in  Channing's  first  series  of  poems 
(1843),  varied  but  little  from  its  first  form,  though 
shortened  slightly.  When,  four  years  later,  Emer 
son's  first  collection  of  poems  came  out,  the  resem 
blance  in  form  of  Channing's  Spider  to  a  favorite 
metre  of  Emerson  led  people  to  say  that  Channing 
had  imitated  Emerson's  Humblebee,  though  in  fact 
his  poem  was  written  and  printed  before  a  line  of 
Emerson's  verse  had  attracted  notice. 

As  the  work  of  a  boy  this  poem  is  remarkable, 
and  has  a  finish  and  melody  which  many  of  Chan 
ning's  later  verses  lack.  It  appeared  in  the  Boston 
monthly  in  this  form  : 


xvi 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION 

Habitant  of  castle  gray, 
Creeping  thing  in  sober  way, 
Visible  sage  mechanician, 
Skilfulest  arithmetician ; 
Aged  animal  at  birth, 
Wanting  joy  and  idle  mirth, 
Clothed  in  famous  tunic  old, 
Vestments  black,  of  many  a  fold, 
Spotted  mightily  with  gold  j 
Weaving,  spinning  in  the  sun 
Since  the  world  its  course  has  run. 
Creation  beautiful  in  art, 
Of  God's  providence  a  part ! 
What  if  none  will  look  at  thee, 
Sighing  for  the  humming  bee, 
Or  great  moth  with  heavenly  wings. 
Or  the  nightingale  who  sings  ? 
Curious  spider  !  thou  >rt  to  me 
Of  a  mighty  family. 


Tender  of  a  mystic  loom, 
Spinning  in  my  silent  room 
Canopy  that  haply  vies 
With  the  mortal  fabric  wise  : 
Everlasting  procreator ! 
Ne'er  was  such  a  generator. 

xvii 


POEMS   OF    SIXTY-FIVE   YEARS 

Adam  wondered  at  thy  skill 

And  thy  persevering  will, 

That  continueth  to  spin, 

Caring  not  a  yellow  pin 

For  the  mortal's  dire  confusion  : 

Sager  in  profound  conclusion 

Than  astronomer  at  night 

When  he  brings  new  worlds  to  light. 

Heaven  has  furnished  thee  with  tools 

Such  as  ne'er  a  heap  of  fools 

Have,  by  dint  of  sweat  and  pain, 

Made  for  use— and  made  in  vain. 

When  mild  breeze  is  hither  straying, 
Sweetest  music  kindly  playing, 
Kaising  high  the  whispering  leaves 
And  the  covering  of  the  sheaves, 
Thou  art  rocking,  airy  thing  ! 
Like  a  proud,  exalted  king  : 
Conqueror  thou  surely  art, 
And  majestical  of  heart. 

There  are  times  of  loneliness 
When  a  living  thing  we  bless— 
Times  of  miserable  sin, 
Cold  without  and  dark  within  : 
Then,  old  spider,  haply  I 
Seek  thy  busy  factory  ; 
xviii 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION 

Always  finding  thee  at  home, 
Too  forecasting  e'er  to  roam. 
So  we  sit  and  spin  together, 
In  the  gayest,  gloomiest  weather. 

Here,  in  the  volume  of  1843,  the  poem  ends ;  but 
in  the  magazine  it  ran  on  thus : 

Friends  that  come  and  go  away 
Now  and  then  amuse  a  day, 
But,  for  all  sad  times,  gay  seasons, 
And  intelligible  reasons, 
Comrades,  spinning  in  the  sun, 
We  will  this  existence  run  ; 
Brothers  we,  by  God  connected, 
Ne'er  with  bitterness  infected ; 
So,  when  ends  this  mortal  life, 
We,  with  joy  and  goodness  rife, 
Shall  wing  the  air  to  happiness 
And  everlasting  blessedness. 

The  success  of  this  early  poem  seems  to  have 
fixed  Ellery  Channing's  determination  to  devote 
himself  to  literature  in  the  poetic  form.  In  1847, 
when,  without  an  outward  vocation,  a  place  was 
offered  him  as  journalist  in  a  well-established  Boston 
newspaper,  he  declined  it  without  hesitation,  say 
ing  to  a  friend  in  Concord :  "I  told  them  that,  by 
the  grace  of  God,  I  would  never  desert  the  Muse 
xix 


POEMS   OF    SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

any  more,  place  or  no  place,  poor  or  rich ;  that  I 
would  stick  fast  to  her  j  and  that  there  should  be  at 
least  one  professional  poet  left.  Twelve  years  it 
has  cost  me  to  get  here,  and  what  remains  shall  go 
the  same  road."  By  this  calculation  he  had  begun 
to  count  himself  a  professional  poet  as  early  as 
1835. 

In  the  meantime  he  neglected  few  opportunities 
to  gain  that  knowledge  of  Nature  and  the  human 
conditions  which  every  poet  needs.  It  may  have 
been  the  mere  restlessness  of  youth,  and  the  moods 
of  a  character  essentially  capricious,  which  first 
kept  him  from  settling  down  to  any  of  the  custom 
ary  pursuits  of  Bostonians  in  his  inherited  station 
of  life  ;  but  it  was  a  poetic  instinct  which  drew  him 
to  the  wild  and  lovely  aspects  of  Nature  and  the 
abodes  of  unconventional  men.  As  a  youth  he  was 
familiar  with  the  mountain  scenery  of  New  Hamp 
shire,  and  with  the  solitudes  of  the  sea-coast  and  the 
capes  ;  and  he  spent  whole  days  and  nights  in  places 
remote  from  the  haunts  of  men  or  even  the  fre 
quent  visitation  of  tourists.  Traces  of  this  outdoor 
life  appear  everywhere  in  his  verse,  as  does  his 
early  bent  toward  the  life  of  a  painter— a  tendency 
encouraged  by  his  intimacy  with  Washington  All- 
ston,  who  had  married  his  aunt  Miss  Channing,  and, 
after  her  death,  had  wedded  a  distant  cousin  of  his 
through  the  Ellerys,  Miss  Dana  of  Cambridge.  It 

xx 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION 

was  also  heightened  by  his  early  friendship  for  Mr. 
Ward,  in  whom  the  artistic  instinct  was  very  strong. 
The  next  poem  which  I  find  dated  among  his 
papers  is  one  that  I  published  for  him  in  the  Boston 
Commonwealth  in  1863  under  the  title  of  Newbury 
Hills,  but  which  was  written  in  1836,  and  then  called 
By  field  Hills— By  field  being  a  district  in  Old  New 
bury  (not  yet  Newburyport),  within  easy  reach  of 
Curzon's  Mill  and  the  Artichoke  stream.  The  two 
charming  poems  relating  to  this  stream,  The  Elver 
and  Isabel,  date  back  to  1836-37  ;  and,  indeed,  many 
of  the  verses  in  the  collection  of  1840  must  have 
been  written  before  the  poet  migrated  to  northern 
Illinois  in  1839.  He  settled  with  a  friend,  Joseph 
Dwight,  a  cousin  of  his  Berkshire  kinsmen  the 
Sedgewicks,  in  McHenry  County,  west  of  Lake 
County  and  bordering  on  the  rolling  prairies  of 
Wisconsin  j  and  there,  after  testing  the  solitude 
of  the  country,  he  bought  a  hundred  and  sixty 
acres  of  land  in  what  was  then  Hartland  township, 
four  miles  from  the  present  city  of  Woodstock— of 
which  eighty  acres  was  woodland.  The  seller  was 
Franklin  Griffing,  the  date  of  purchase  was  Novem 
ber  9,  1839,  and  it  was  sold  by  the  young  pioneer 
to  Pliny  Hayward,  a  Massachusetts  man,  October 
22,  1840  ;  soon  after  which  the  poet  took  up  his 
abode  for  a  year  or  two  in  Cincinnati,  where  his 
maternal  uncle  Kev.  James  H.  Perkins  had  a  parish 
xxi 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  TEAKS 

for  a  few  years.  There  Mr.  Channing  taught  pupils 
and  studied  law— the  latter  in  a  desultory  way,  as 
he  had  studied  medicine  with  his  father  in  Boston. 
But  he  made  many  friends  in  Cincinnati, — forming 
the  acquaintance  of  the  Longworth,  Blackwell,  and 
Cranch  families,  and  many  more,— wrote  for  the 
newspapers  (as  he  had  done  in  Boston  before 
going  West),  and  enjoyed  the  agreeable  society. 
There  he  fell  in  love  with  Miss  Ellen  Fuller,  a 
younger  sister  of  Margaret  the  sibylline,  and  mar 
ried  her  in  the  autumn  of  1842— having  in  the 
meantime  become  one  of  the  regular  contributors 
to  the  Dial  of  Margaret  Fuller,  Emerson,  and  George 
Eipley.  Naturally,  therefore,  when  he  returned  to 
the  East  he  sought,  after  a  brief  residence  in  Cam 
bridge  near  his  uncle  Professor  Edward  Channing, 
and  his  cousins  the  Danas,  to  establish  himself  in 
the  vicinity  of  Emerson.  Writing  to  him  years 
afterward,  Ellery  Channing  said  : 

I  have  but  one  reason  for  settling  in  one  place 
in  America  :  it  is  because  you  are  there.  I  not 
only  have  no  preference  for  any  place,  but  I  do 
not  know  that  I  should  be  able  to  settle  upon 
any  place  if  you  were  not  living.  I  came  to 
Concord  attracted  by  you,  because  your  mind, 
your  talents,  your  cultivation,  are  superior  to 
those  of  any  man  I  know,  living  or  dead.  I 
xxii 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION 

incline  to  go  where  the  man  is,  or  where  the  men 
are,  just  as  naturally  as  I  should  sit  by  the  fire 
in  the  winter.  The  men  are  the  fire  in  this 
great  winter  of  humanity. 

At  his  first  residence  in  Concord,  where  he  had 
visited  Emerson  before,  Ellery  Channing  established 
himself  in  a  cottage  on  the  Cambridge  turnpike, 
almost  adjoining  the  estate  of  Emerson,  and  there 
he  was  living  when  his  intimate  friend  Ward  as 
sumed  the  cost  of  printing  his  first  volume  of  poems, 
in  the  spring  or  summer  of  1843.  Most  of  the  verses 
in  this  book  of  a  hundred  and  sixty  pages  had 
been  written  some  years  earlier ;  some  of  them, 
like  the  Song  of  the  Earth-Spirit,  were  parts  of 
longer  poems  ;  others  had  been  printed  in  the  Dial. 
Before  July,  1840,  when  the  first  quarterly  num 
ber  of  the  Dial  was  issued,  his  friends  had  placed  in 
Emerson's  hands  a  collection  of  Channing's  early 
poems,  a  list  of  which,  from  his  own  early  handwrit 
ing,  follows.  I  have  indicated  which  of  them  have 
not  been  printed,  so  far  as  known,  up  to  this  time, 
when  a  few  of  those  unpublished  appear  in  this 
volume. 

Sunday  Poem.    (Nine  parts,       Sea-Song. 

8  pages.)  Our  Birthdays. 

A  Song  of  Spring.  For  a  Wood  Scene  in  Winter. 

Alek.    (Printed  as  "Arab          The  Harbor.     (Unprinted.) 

Song.")  October. 

xxiii 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE   YEARS 


Life.     (Unprinted.) 

The  Island. 

Gifts. 

A  Song  of  Winter.  (Un 
printed.  ) 

The  Helmsman.  (Unprinted.) 

Disappointment.  (Unprinted. ) 

The  Poor  Man. 

Dreaming.  (Printed,  with 
new  verse.) 

Song.     (Unprinted. ) 

On  Receiving  Some  Drawings. 

Written  the  Evening  of  a  No 
vember  Day. 

Restlessness.     (Unprinted.) 

The  Miner's  Art.  (Unprinted.) 

A  Lament.     (Unprinted.) 

Thoughts. 

Early  Winter.     (Unprinted.) 

To  S.  a.  Ward.    (Unprinted.) 

The  Stars. 

Death. 

Ambition.     (Unprinted.) 

A  Poet's  Love. 


A  Village  Hymn.  (Unprinted.) 

The  Lover's  Song. 

Characters.     (Unprinted.) 

Past.     (Unprinted.) 

The  Convent.     (Unprinted.) 

The  Bell  Striketh  the  Hour. 
(Unprinted.) 

Autumn. 

The  Niagara  Fall. 

Dirge.  (Printed  as  "Mem 
ory.") 

After  Life.     (Unprinted.) 

Song.     (Printed  much  later.) 

To  . 

Willingness.     (Unprinted.) 

A  Prayer.     (Unprinted.) 

The  Beach.     (Unprinted.) 

Song.     (Unprinted.) 

The  River. 

One  Abandoned  by  her  Lover. 
(Unprinted.) 

The  Storm.     (Unprinted.) 

A  Storm.     (Unprinted.) 

Sonnets.     (Two  unprinted.) 


After  reading  these  poems  in  manuscript,  Emerson 
wrote  an  essay  for  the  October  Dial  (1840)  on  New 
Poetry,  in  which  he  published  several  of  Channing's 
pieces,  with  these  introductory  comments  : 

We  have  fancied  that  we  drew  greater  pleas 
ure   from  some   manuscript  verses  than  from 
xxiv 


BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION 

printed  ones  of  equal  talent.  For  there  was 
herein  the  charm  of  character ;  they  were  con 
fessions  ;  and  the  faults,  the  imperfect  parts,  the 
fragmentary  verses,  the  halting  rhymes,  had  a 
worth  beyond  that  of  a  high  finish.  They  testi 
fied  that  the  writer  was  more  man  than  artist, 
more  earnest  than  vain ;  that  the  thought  was 
too  sweet  and  sacred  to  him  than  that  he  should 
suffer  his  ears  to  hear  or  his  eyes  to  see  a  super 
ficial  defect  in  the  expression.  If  poetry  of  this 
kind  has  merit,  we  conceive  that  the  prescrip 
tion  which  demands  a  rhythmical  polish  may  be 
easily  set  aside  $  and  when  a  writer  has  out 
grown  the  state  of  thought  which  produced  the 
poem,  the  interest  of  letters  is  served  by  publish 
ing  it  imperfect,  as  we  preserve  studies,  torsos, 
and  blocked  statues  of  the  great  masters. 

Here  is  poetry  which  asks  no  aid  of  magni 
tude  or  number,  of  blood  or  crime,  but  finds 
theatre  enough  in  the  first  field  or  brookside, 
breadth  and  depth  enough  in  the  flow  of  its  own 
thought.  Here  is  self- repose  which  to  our  mind 
is  stabler  than  the  Pyramids.  Here  is  self-respect 
which  leads  a  man  to  date  from  his  own  heart 
more  proudly  than  from  Rome.  Here  is  love 
which  sees  through  surface  and  adores  the  gentle 
nature  and  not  the  costume.  Here  is  the  good 
wise  heart  which  sees  that  the  end  of  culture  is 
xxv 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

strength  and  cheerfulness.  Here  is  poetry  more 
purely  intellectual  than  any  American  verses 
we  have  yet  seen,  distinguished  from  all  com 
petition  by  two  merits— the  fineness  of  percep 
tion,  and  the  poet's  trust  in  his  own  genius 
to  that  degree  that  there  is  an  absence  of  all 
conventional  imagery.  The  writer  was  not 
afraid  to  write  ill ;  he  had  a  great  meaning  too 
much  at  heart  to  stand  for  trifles,  and  wrote 
lordly  for  his  peers  alone. 

A  whole  generation  later,  in  1871,  when  I  carried 
him  the  manuscript  of  Channing's  Wanderer,  whose 
title  I  had  suggested,  and  procured  from  Emerson 
a  preface  to  this  fifth  volume  of  his  friend's  poetry, 
he  confirmed  his  early  verdict  with  even  stronger 
praise,  saying : 

Here  is  Hamlet  in  the  fields,  with  never  a 
thought  to  waste  even  on  Horatio's  opinion  of 
his  sallies.  Plainly  the  author  is  a  man  of  large 
reading  in  a  wide  variety  of  studies ;  but  his 
books  have  not  tamed  his  invincible  personality. 
His  interest  in  nature  is  not  pedantic,  much  less 
culinary— but  insatiably  curious  of  the  hint  it 
gives  of  its  cause,  and  its  relation  to  man.  All 
his  use  of  it  is  free  and  searching.  This  book 
requires  a  good  reader,  a  lover  and  inquirer  of 
xxvi 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION 

nature ;  and  such  a  one  will  find  himself  re 
warded.  If  there  is  neglect  of  conventional 
ornament  and  correct  finish  which  even  looks  a 
little  studied,— as  if  the  poet  crippled  his  pen 
tameters  to  challenge  notice  of  a  subtler  melody, 
—yet  here  are  strokes  of  skill  which  recall  the 
great  masters.  Here  is  the  mountain  truly  pic 
tured  :  the  upland  day,  the  upland  night,  the 
perpetual  home  of  the  wind  ;  every  hint  of  the 
primeval  agencies  noted,  and  the  thoughts  which 
these  bring  to  youth  and  to  maturity.  The  book 
is  written  to  himself— is  his  forest  or  street  ex 
perience,  the  record  of  his  moods,  fancies,  ob 
servations,  and  studies,  and  will  interest  good 
readers  as  such.  He  will  write,— as  he  has  ever 
written,— whether  he  has  readers  or  not.  But 
his  poems  have  to  me  and  others  an  exceptional 
value  for  this  reason :  we  have  not  been  con 
sidered  in  their  composition,  but  either  defied 
or  forgotten  j  and  therefore  we  consult  them 
freely  as  photographs. 

The  sentences  of  this  matchless  critic  have  here 
been  brought  together  because  they  touch  their 
subject  with  so  fine  and  so  generous  an  apprecia 
tion  ;  but  between  the  portfolio  of  1840  and  the  sheets 
of  The  Wanderer  there  was  intercalated  a  long  suc 
cession  of  experiences  and  poetic  endeavors.  In 
xxvii 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE   YEARS 

1847  Channing  published  a  second  series  of  poems  ; 
in  1849  a  third,  entitled  The  Woodman;  in  1858  a 
single  poem,  precursor  of  The  Wanderer,  which  he 
called  Near  Home,  though  it  described  two  of  his 
dearest  haunts— the  Concord  woods  and  river-mead 
ows,  and  the  Atlantic  sea-coast  of  Massachusetts ; 
and  at  intervals  occasional  poems  for  special  events 
—the  consecration  of  the  Sleepy  Hollow  cemetery, 
the  funeral  of  Henry  Thoreau,  the  centenary  of 
Bronson  Alcott's  native  town  in  Connecticut,  and 
the  birthdays  and  weddings  of  his  near  friends.  In 
1873  he  revised  and  enlarged  an  earlier-written 
biography  of  Thoreau,  and  published  it  with  Memo 
rial  Verses  annexed.  To  most  of  these  volumes  and 
brochures  the  public  paid  very  slight  attention ; 
the  copies  were  returned  on  his  hands  unsold,  like 
the  greater  part  of  Thoreau's  first  edition  of  the 
Week  ;  nor  did  he  attempt,  as  Thoreau  did,  to  amend 
their  sale  by  dealing  in  them  himself.  On  the  con 
trary,  he  philosophically  cut  up  the  unbound  sheets 
of  his  Conversations  in  Eome  (1847),  and  upon  their 
blank  spaces  wrote  those  remarkable  poems  de 
scribing  Cape  Cod,  and  afterward  his  life  of  Thoreau. 
This  was  not  exactly  seething  the  kid  in  its  mother's 
milk,  which  was  forbidden  to  the  Jews  ;  nor  was  it 
making  one  hand  wash  the  other,  according  to  our 
proverb  :  but  it  was  something  between  the  two. 
Quite  as  varied  were  his  worldly  experiences, 
xxviii 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION 

In  1844  he  was  induced  to  go  to  New  York  and  help 
Horace  Greeley,  George  Ripley,  and  Margaret  Fuller 
edit  the  Tribune  ;  in  1845  he  crossed  the  Atlantic  in 
a  Mediterranean  packet  and  spent  a  few  months  in 
France  and  Italy.  In  the  years  following  his  unsuc 
cessful  volumes  of  verse  he  tried  his  fortune  at 
lecturing  in  half  a  dozen  New  England  cities  and 
towns— Boston,  Providence,  Plymouth,  Worcester, 
etc.  He  joined  Thoreau  in  some  of  his  tours— 
among  the  Berkshire  Hills,  along  Cape  Cod,  in  some 
New  Hampshire  rambles,  and  through  French  Can 
ada.  Earlier,  during  Hawthorne's  abode  in  the  Old 
Manse,  which  his  genius  immortalized,  Channing 
took  him  on  excursions  in  Thoreau's  Merrimac  boat 
upon  the  Concord  and  the  Assabet  rivers,  and  in 
many  a  walk  to  scenes  of  picturesque  beauty. 

Thoreau  himself  had  early  become  intimate  with 
his  new  neighbor,  read  the  poems  of  1843  with 
appreciation,  and  wrote  from  Staten  Island  to 
Emerson,  in  May  of  that  year:  "Tell  Channing  I 
saw  a  man  buy  a  copy  at  Little  &  Brown's  ;  he  may 
have  been  a  virtuoso,  but  we  will  give  him  the 
credit."  And  again,  in  July  :  "Tell  him  to  remain 
at  least  long  enough  to  establish  Concord's  right  and 
interest  in  him.  I  was  beginning  to  know  the 
man."  Indeed,  Channing  did  remain  in  Concord, 
with  occasional  absences,  until  he  had  seen  the 
funerals  of  all  his  literary  friends  of  the  earlier 
xxix 


POEMS   OF    SIXTY-FIVE  YEAKS 

period :  Thoreau's  in  1862,  Hawthorne's  in  1864, 
Mrs.  Kipley's  in  1867,  Emerson's  in  1882,  and  Al- 
cott's  and  Louisa's  in  1888. 

Thoreau,  who  had  quoted  his  verses  in  the  Week, 
and  again  in  Walden  (in  1854),  had  this  to  say  of 
Channing  in  that  most  popular  of  his  volumes  : 

The  one  who  came  from  farthest  to  my  lodge, 
through  deepest  snows  and  most  dismal  tem 
pests,  was  a  poet.  A  farmer,  a  hunter,  a  soldier, 
a  reporter,  even  a  philosopher,  may  be  daunted, 
but  nothing  can  deter  a  poet,  for  he  is  actuated 
by  pure  love.  Who  can  predict  his  comings  and 
goings  ?  His  business  calls  him  out  at  all  hours, 
even  when  doctors  sleep.  We  made  that  small 
house  ring  with  boisterous  mirth  and  resound 
with  the  murmur  of  much  sober  talk.  At  suit 
able  intervals  there  were  regular  salutes  of  laugh 
ter,  which  might  have  been  referred  indiffer 
ently  to  the  last  uttered  or  the  forthcoming  jest. 

This  implies  what  has  been  the  constant  fact  of 
Ellery  Channing's  life,  in  spite  of  the  melancholy 
shadowed  forth  in  his  verse— a  lively  and  humorous 
turn  of  mind,  with  sallies  of  merriment,  which  dis 
tinguish  his  letters  as  much  as  his  conversation— 
perhaps  more.  He  did  not  spare  his  friends  in  his 
grotesque  observations,  and,  in  spite  of  his  respect 
and  admiration  for  Bronson  Alcott,  could  not  help 

XXX 


BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION 

satirizing  him.  Thus  in  November,  1847,  after 
Emerson  had  sailed  for  England,  and  Thoreau  had 
migrated  from  his  Walden  lodge  to  take  Emerson's 
place  in  the  household,  Channing  wrote  to  his  absent 
friend  thus  concerning  the  celebrated  arbor  or  gar 
den  cell  which  Alcott,  with  much  labor  and  good 
taste,  was  building  on  Emerson's  lawn  : 

Now  for  the  summer-house,  that  all-impor 
tant  feature.  You  know  to  what  I  refer— the 
chapel  of  ease  which  our  great  philosopher  is 
erecting  on  the  lawn ;  is  erecting  and  has  been 
erecting.  There  it  is,  or  the  idea  of  it.  This 
eternal  pancake,  which  not  even  the  all-power 
ful  rays  of  the  Alcott  sun  have  quite  baked,  has 
finally  drawn  on  its  double  nightcap.  First  a 
wickerwork  skull ;  then  a  head  of  moss,  affirmed 
by  those  who  have  seen  it  to  be  admirable ; 
lastly,  a  straw  nightcap.  Even  the  thermometer 
at  sixteen  below  zero  cannot  pinch  its  ears.  In 
other  words,  the  building  of  this  microscopic 
Cathedral  of  Cologne  realizes  eternity.  Tan 
talus's  occupation  's  gone.  Our  ancient  has  his 
meals  brought  there,  works  from  morning  till 
night,  and  dreams  (so  Mrs.  A.  affirms)  about  this 
Tom  Thumb  of  a  St.  Peter's. 

Between  Emerson's  return  home  in  1848  and  my 

arrival  in  Concord  early  in  1855,  a  plan  had  been 

xxxi 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

formed  for  a  combined  series  of  walks  and  talks,  in 
which  Emerson,  Thoreau,  Channing,  and  perhaps 
Alcott,  were  to  take  part,  and  a  volume  made  up 
from  them  which  Channing  was  to  edit.  It  in 
volved  copying  from  the  journals  of  these  intimate 
friends,  as  well  as  actual  conversations  reported  by 
Channing  ;  and  was  faithfully  elaborated  by  him  into 
the  form  of  a  book,  to  be  published  with  or  without 
the  names  of  the  talkers,  as  might  be  judged  best. 
The  plan  was  never  carried  out  ;  but  a  dozen  years 
later,  or  nearer  twenty,  when  printing  his  life  of 
Thoreau,  Channing  inserted  therein  some  pages 
from  this  manuscript,  including  passages  from 
Emerson's  and  Thoreau's  journals,  and  even  a  few 
verses  of  Emerson's  which  had  not  elsewhere  been 
printed  at  that  time. 

Few  of  our  authors  have  ever  written  on  so  per 
sistently  with  so  little  evidence  of  popular  approval. 
His  only  really  popular  book  was  his  life  of  Thoreau, 
published  in  1873,  thirty  years  after  the  venture  of 
his  first  volume  of  verse,  which  was  made  up  in 
part  from  his  contributions  to  the  Dm?,  where 
Emerson  and  Margaret  Fuller  welcomed  him  as  a 
contributor  before  he  was  two-and-twenty. 

He  worked  for  a  time  under  Horace  Greeley  in 

the  New  York  Tribune,  and  he  afterward  for  a  year 

or  two  helped  edit  the  New  Bedford  Mercury ;  but 

he  adhered  to  his  early  vow,  and  was  a  professional 

xxxii 


BIOGEAPHIOAL  INTRODUCTION 

poet  all  his  days.  Since  his  death  I  have  found  on 
his  table  what  I  take  to  be  his  last  poem,  addressed 
to  the  daughter  of  a  friend,  not  then  two  years  old  ; 
and  it  shows  the  same  charms  and  the  same  faults 
that  his  verses  had  sixty -six  years  ago,  when  the 
first  one  was  printed. 


TO   MARJORIE— DREAMING 

WE  must  not  weep,  we  will  not  moan  ; 
Let  all  such  things  be  deemed  unknown. 
Now  for  the  words  of  livelong  hope 
In  Marjorie's  white  horoscope  ! 

Good-by  to  all  that  dims  our  eyes— 
Welcome  her,  kind  futurities  ! 
Anthems  of  joy  and  hymns  of  gold- 
All  these  let  Marjorie  infold  ! 

Yes,  for  that  sweet  and  peaceful  child, 
That  gift  of  beauty  undefiled, 
A  smile  of  love,  a  song  of  joy, 
Shall  Marjorie's  dream  of  life  employ. 

I  see  the  sunset  o'er  the  hill, 
The  level  meads  with  glory  fill— 
A  gentle  light,  a  heavenly  balm, 
Like  Marjorie's  soul,  so  clear  and  calm, 
xxxiii 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

This  last  stanza  has  an  affecting  interest  j  it  was 
from  his  windows  overlooking  the  river-meadows 
and  the  moorland  around  Nashawtuc  that  he  daily 
watched  the  landscape  and  nightly  observed  the 
silent  march  of  the  stars.  Such  were  the  scenes  his 
artist- nature  loved  to  view— and  to  how  many  of 
our  quiet  nooks  of  rural  beauty  has  he  conducted 
me  and  scores  of  his  friends  !  That  was  his  special 
talent  as  a  walker,  remembered  by  all  who  ever 
strolled  with  him,  and  particularly  commemorated 
by  Emerson  and  by  Hawthorne.  In  Emerson's 
diary  occurs  this  passage— one  of  several  in  which 
he  praises  the  social  gifts  of  Ellery  Channing  : 

Another  walk  with  Ellery  Channing,  well  worth 
commemoration,  if  that  were  possible ;  but  no 
pen  could  write  what  we  saw.  Ellery  found, 
as  usual,  the  place  where  your  house  should 
be  set,— with  excellent  judgment,— leaving 
the  wood-paths  as  they  were,  which  no  art 
could  make  over.  After  leaving  White  Pond 
we  struck  across  an  orchard  to  a  steep  hill  of 
the  right  New  Hampshire  slope,  and  came  pres 
ently  into  rudest  woodland  landscapes,  unknown, 
undescribed,  and  hitherto  unwalked  by  us  Satur 
day  afternoon  professors.  Ellery  said  he  had 
once  fancied  that  there  were  some  amateur 
trades  (as  politics),  but  he  found  there  were 
xxxiv 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION 

none ;  these,  too,  were  fenced  by  Whig  barri 
cades.  Even  walking  could  not  be  done  by 
amateurs,  but  by  professors  only.  In  walking 
with  Ellery  you  shall  always  see  what  was  never 
before  shown  to  the  eye  of  man. 

These  walks  were  with  many  friends,  and  were 
long  continued.  They  began  in  Concord,  with 
Emerson,  as  early  as  1841 ;  with  Thoreau  and  Haw 
thorne  a  little  later ;  with  all  three  they  ended  only 
with  their  lifetime,  or  the  enfeebled  health  that 
preceded  death.  Channing  had  even  arranged  to 
join  Thoreau  at  Niagara,  and  make  with  him  that 
last  long  journey  of  his  to  Minnesota  and  the  homes 
of  the  Sioux  in  1861 ;  but  when  the  time  came,  the 
poet's  sensitive  heart  failed  him.  With  Hawthorne 
he  sailed  and  rowed  about  the  two  rivers  of  Concord 
in  Thoreau's  Merrimac  boat  j  and  in  his  Mosses  the 
novelist  has  commemorated  those  short  voyages. 
With  Alcott  he  walked  but  little  ;  that  philosopher, 
though  a  stalwart  figure,  cared  less  for  walks  than 
for  conversation.  For  myself,  I  have  rambled  thou 
sands  of  miles  with  Channing  during  the  nearly 
forty-seven  years  of  our  friendship,  and  he  has 
made  me  acquainted  with  every  nook  of  pictur 
esque  beauty  and  every  wide-reaching  view  in  this 
lovely  region,  so  much  like  English  Warwickshire. 
Along  with  this  artist-eye  and  poet's  imagination 
xxxv 


POEMS  OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

went  a  mingling  of  intellectual  and  moral  traits 
hard  to  define.  Conscience  and  whim,  duty  and 
caprice,  were  strangely  intermixed  and  transfused ; 
so  that  something  which  would  strike  another  man 
—say  Thoreau— as  an  obligation,  might  seem  to 
Channing  but  a  dream  of  possibility.  Struck  with 
this  trait,  Thoreau,  recording  one  walk  fifty  years 
ago,  made  this  acute  observation,  which  is  still  the 
best  account  that  I  know  : 

In  our  walks,  Channing  takes  out  his  note-book 
sometimes,  and  tries  to  write  as  I  do— but  all 
in  vain.  He  soon  puts  it  up  again,  or  contents 
himself  with  scrawling  some  sketch  of  the  land 
scape.  Observing  me  still  scribbling,  he  will 
say  that  he  confines  himself  to  the  ideal— purely 
ideal  remarks  ;  he  leaves  the  facts  to  me.  Some 
times,  too,  he  will  say,  a  little  petulantly  :  <I  am 
universal ;  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  partic 
ular  and  definite.'  He  is  the  moodiest  person, 
perhaps,  that  I  ever  saw  ;  as  naturally  whimsical 
as  a  cow  is  brindled.  Both  in  his  tenderness 
and  his  roughness  he  belies  himself.  He  can  be 
incredibly  selfish  and  unexpectedly  generous. 
He  is  conceited— and  yet  there  is  in  him 
far  more  than  usual  to  ground  conceit  upon. 
He  is  one  who  will  not  stoop  to  rise.  He 
wants  something  for  which  he  will  not  pay  the 
xxxvi 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION 

going  price.     He  will  only  learn  slowly  by 
failure. 

Failure  and  success  indeed  came  to  him  in  his 
long  and  by  no  means  idle  life ;  but  the  worldly 
failure  was  out  of  proportion  to  the  worldly  success. 
He  bore  them  both  with  a  real  fortitude  which  was 
only  the  more  pronounced  because  of  the  superficial 
petulance  and  impatience  he  so  often  displayed. 

What  Channing's  view  was  of  Thoreau's  writing 
habit,  and  his  interest  in  outward  Nature,  may  be 
learned  from  an  entry  in  his  journal  of  March, 
1867,  five  years  after  Thoreau's  death.  Channing 
was  then  engaged  in  writing  or  revising  his  life  of 
Thoreau,  which  did  not  finally  appear  until  1873. 
Thus  runs  the  journal : 

Henry  was  fond  of  making  an  ado,  a  wonder,  a 
surprise  of  all  facts  that  took  place  out  of  doors  ; 
but  a  picture,  a  piece  of  music,  a  novel,  did  not 
affect  him  in  that  fashion.  He  exaggerated  the 
permanence  of  everything  but  what  men  do ; 
and,  like  all  writers  who  have  had  literary  suc 
cess,  he  necessarily  deemed  his  own  writing  of 
special  importance.  It  is  well  that  some  fail,  or 
none  would  know  what  a  trifle  the  best  writing 
is.  But  this  trait  of  exaggeration  in  Henry  was 
as  pleasing  as  possible,  so  far  as  his  companion 
xxxvii 


POEMS   OF    SIXTY-FIVE   YEARS 

was  concerned.  Nothing  was  more  delightful 
than  the  enormous  curiosity,  the  continued 
greenness,  the  effervescing  wonder  of  this  child 
of  Nature— glad  of  everything  its  mother 
said  or  did.  This  joy  in  Nature  is  something 
we  can  get  over,  like  love.  And  yet,  love — 
that  is  a  hard  toy  to  smash  and  to  fling  under 
the  grate  for  good.  Now,  Henry  made  no  account 
of  love  at  all,  apparently.  He  had  notions 
about  friendship.  I  have  always  been  surprised 
at  the  pertinacity  with  which  Henry  kept  to 
the  writing  of  his  journals.  This  was  something 
truly  heroic.  I  should  have  fancied  his  thoughts 
would  have  run  out  5  that  the  stream  would 
have  become  dry.  But  there  are  the  30  vol 
umes,  all  done  in  ten  years ;  besides  all  the 
other  writing,— and  no  little,  truly,— that  he 
must  have  done  in  the  same  period. 

Thoreau  surely  had  a  certain  "literary  success" 
in  his  lifetime,  and  much  more  since ;  while  his 
companion  in  the  walks  regarded  his  own  failure 
as  complete.  The  genius  Channing  inherited  was 
improved  by  study  and  experience,  but  its  literary 
expression  gained  little  in  comparison  with  the 
wisdom  that  lay  behind  it.  Failure  had  given  him 
a  juster  estimate  of  himself,  and  had  not  injured 
his  mind  or  his  morals  by  the  poison  of  envy,  that 
disappointment  so  often  infuses  in  hearts  as  sus- 
xxxviii 


BIOGKAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION 

ceptible.  It  was  this  very  susceptibility  that  made 
him  often  seem  distant  or  harsh  $  the  wounds  of 
time,  the  sharp  changes  and  reverses  of  life,  fell 
upon  his  tender  heart  with  the  insufferable  keen 
ness  of  physical  pain ;  and  he  must  withdraw  into 
himself  till  the  hurt  had  partly  healed.  His  true 
friends  were  those  who  did  not  exact  or  even 
expect  from  him  what  might  be  required  of  an 
ordinary  acquaintance.  In  the  years  that  I  have 
known  him  familiarly,  though  much  was  seen 
which  I  would  have  changed  had  change  been  pos 
sible,  I  ever  found  him  worthy  of  friendship. 

In  explanation  of  the  contradictions  in  our  poet's 
nature,  which  all  who  knew  him  intimately  saw, 
and  by  which  strangers  might  be  either  strongly 
attracted  or  sharply  repelled,  a  few  words  may  be 
said.  His  mother  dying  too  early  to  give  him  a 
mother's  care,  he  never  knew  in  boyhood  what  it 
was  to  have  the  atmosphere  of  a  happy  home  about 
him.  A  sensitive  nature  turned  this  deprivation 
into  a  source  of  melancholy  in  extreme  youth,  on 
which  he  often  dwelt  in  his  earlier  and  sadder 
poems.  In  one  of  these,  written  before  he  was  of 
age,  and  never  before  printed,  he  said  : 

I  tell  you,  sudden  fates  which  come  to  me, 
Ye  are  not  faithful !     Hear  :  my  mother  died 

Before  I  clasped  her,  and  that  parent's  knee 
Me  never  knew— my  tears  she  never  dried ; 
xxxix 


POEMS   OF    SIXTY-FIVE  YEAKS 

But  with  the  unknown  upward  then  I  grew, 
Far  from  all  that  which  was  to  me  most  true. 

That  early  life  was  bitter  oft ; 

And  like  a  flower  whose  roots  are  dry 
I  withered  ;  for  my  feelings  soft 
Were  by  my  brothers  passed  by. 
Storm-wind  fell  on  me, 
Dark  clouds  lowered  on  me  $ 
Many  ghosts  swept  trembling  past ; 
Cold  looks  in  my  eyes  they  cast. 

Upon  this  sad  mood— by  no  means  unusual  in 
those  of  a  poetic  temperament— there  came  the 
gladdening  presence  of  outward  Nature ;  and  the 
verse  goes  on : 

Then  spoke  the  Spirit  of  the  Earth, 

Her  gentle  voice  like  gliding  water's  song  : 
"None  from  my  loins  have  ever  birth 
But  they  to  joy  and  love  belong  ; 
I  faithful  am,  and  give  to  thee 
Blessings  great— and  give  them  free." 

From  that  early  day  Ellery  Channing  became  the 
poet  of  outward  Nature  and  inward  sensibility— too 
keenly  alive  to  all  that  vibrates  in  the  chords  of 
feeling  to  pursue  or  even  accept  the  routine  of  dis- 

xl 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION 

cipline  ;  but  also  too  perceptive  of  all  the  shows  of 
Nature  not  to  delineate  them  well  in  such  verse 
as  the  Muse  gave  him.  This  was  often  magical  in 
single  lines  or  whole  stanzas,  but  something  ren 
dered  him  little  capable  of  revising  and  polishing  j 
so  that  what  Emerson  said  of  Alcott  was  just  as  true 
of  Channing :  "A  little  finish  and  articulation 
added  to  his  potencies,  and  he  would  have  com 
pared  with  the  greatest."  Concerning  Channing 
and  his  verses  his  friends  remained  steadily  of  the 
same  mind,  as  we  have  seen  in  Emerson's  case ;  the 
failure  of  the  public  to  appreciate,  and  of  the  poet 
to  finish  and  clarify,  did  not  affect  their  good  opin 
ion.  When  he  was  leaving  Concord  temporarily 
for  New  Bedford,  in  1855-56,  and  had  formed  a 
new  friendship  with  one  of  the  New  Bedford  Quak 
ers,  Daniel  Ricketson,  Thoreau  wrote  to  the  latter 
(March,  1856)  : 

I  was  surprised  to  hear  that  Channing  was  in 
N.  When  he  was  here  last,  in  December,  he 
said,  like  himself,  that  he  "did  not  know  the 
name  of  the  place  where  he  lived."  How  to 
serve  him  most  effectually  has  long  been  a  prob 
lem  with  his  friends.  Perhaps  it  is  left  for  you 
to  solve  it.  I  suspect  that  the  most  that  you  or 
any  one  can  do  for  him  is  to  appreciate  his 
genius— to  buy  and  read,  and  cause  others  to 
xli 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

buy  and  read,  his  poems.  That  is  the  hand  he 
has  put  forth  to  the  world ;  take  hold  of  that. 
Your  knowledge  of  Cowper  will  help  you  to 
know  Channing.  He  will  accept  sympathy  and 
aid,  but  he  will  not  bear  questioning.  He  will 
ever  be  reserved  and  enigmatic,  and  you  must 
deal  with  him  at  arm's-length.  I  have  no  se 
crets  to  tell  you  concerning  him,  and  do  not  wish 
to  call  obvious  excellences  and  defects  by  far 
fetched  names.  Nor  need  I  suggest  how  witty 
and  poetic  he  is— and  what  an  inexhaustible 
fund  of  good-fellowship  you  will  find  in  him. 

Equally  exhaustless,  as  years  went  by,  became 
Channing's  fund  of  genial  and  exact  learning  in  the 
greatest  variety  of  topics.  An  artist  by  nature,  he 
explored  in  his  dusty  chamber,  or  in  the  alcoves  and 
galleries  of  cities,  the  whole  field  of  ancient  and 
modern  art ;  and  his  verdict  on  painters,  sculptors, 
engravers,  architects,  decorators,  etc.,  if  capricious, 
was  sure  to  be  memorable.  Fond  of  travel  and  ad 
venture,  yet  shrinking  from  their  inevitable  condi 
tions,  he  became  an  explorer  by  reading  the  books 
and  poring  over  the  maps  of  others ;  and  when  I 
was  first  in  Greece,  he  astonished  me,  well  as  I  had 
known  him,  by  his  intimate  knowledge  of  every 
English  and  French  scholar  or  virtuoso  who  had 
searched  out  the  lovely  ruins  of  antiquity.  The 

xlii 


BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION 

authorship  of  Junius,  the  mystery  of  Mary  of  Scot 
land,  and  the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask,  had  no  secrets 
from  him  ;  he  was  equally  at  home  in  arctic  voyages 
and  with  the  forests  and  gorillas  and  lions  of  Africa. 
Medicine  and  surgery,  botany  and  bird -lore,  geology 
and  the  attractive  alphabet  of  gems  and  precious 
metals,  found  him  an  eager  and  capable  student. 
It  is  only  needful  to  read  his  later  poems,  such  as 
The  Wanderer,  and  the  heterogeneous  resources  of 
his  Thoreau,  to  see  from  what  distant  and  rich  reser 
voirs  his  allusions  and  illustrations  were  drawn.  As 
in  his  early  poems  he  was  often  overwhelmed  by 
the  tide  of  his  crowding  fancies,  so  in  later  verses 
his  stores  of  memory  would  hurry  imagination  on 
from  point  to  point  in  bewildering  caprice  ;  but  the 
thick  forest  of  his  thought  was  ever  traversed,  here 
and  there,  by  the  silvery  and  glancing  stream  of 
poesy,  as  the  mountain  brook  glides  through  the 
plane-trees  of  Ikaria  in  the  gorges  of  Attica. 

Ellery  Channing  was  frugally  supported  in  the 
latter  half  of  his  long  life  by  a  modest  inherited  in 
come,  which  he  sometimes  increased  by  literary 
work,  and  from  which  he  gave  freely,  in  his  own 
way,  to  those  who  needed  aid  or  whose  studies  he 
chose  to  assist.  Simple  almost  to  asceticism  in  his 
own  habits,  living  often  on  one  meal  a  day,  and 
making  his  wardrobe  last  beyond  the  hopes  of  his 
friends,  he  yet  had  the  feelings  and  principles  of  a 
xliii 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

man  of  fortune,  along  with  the  austere  geniality  of 
an  ancient  philosopher.  Next  to  fields  and  woods, 
skies  and  landscapes,  his  delight  was  in  theatres 
and  libraries  ;  and  few  could  discuss  better  the  stage 
of  two  centuries,  or  the  famous  collections  of  schol 
ars  and  artists,  from  the  period  of  Babylonian  cylin 
ders  to  ours  of  the  newspaper  and  the  photograph. 
This  made  his  conversation  delightful  when  his 
darker  moods  or  physical  ills  did  not  keep  him 
silent.  His  last  illness  was  brief  and  with  little 
acute  suffering,  and  he  died  quietly,  at  early  morn 
ing,  December  23,  1901— the  last  of  the  illustrious 
Concord  brotherhood. 

A  few  of  his  contemporaries,  and  the  children 
and  grandchildren  of  himself  and  his  friends,  assem 
bled  in  the  village  church  of  Concord,  the  day  after 
Christmas,  to  pay  their  last  tribute  of  affection  and 
neighborly  regard  to  one  of  the  oldest  citizens  of 
Concord,  who  made  the  town  his  residence  from 
choice,  and  not  by  the  accident  of  birth,  and  who  re 
turned  to  it  more  than  once  when  accident  or  duty 
called  him  away.  His  life  was  quiet  and  almost 
unknown  to  the  mass  of  his  townsfolk ;  he  added 
nothing  to  their  burdens  or  their  animosities,  and 
little  to  their  gossip ;  his  duties  to  his  companions 
or  to  those  who  served  him  were  silently  performed  ; 
he  chose  a  recluse  life,  not  from  misanthropy,  but 
because  his  constitution  admitted  no  other ;  and  he 
xliv 


BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION 

was  well  described,  twenty  years  before  his  birth, 
by  the  English  poet  he  admired  : 

He  is  retired  as  noontide  dew, 
Or  fountain  in  a  noonday  grove  ; 

And  you  must  love  him  ere  to  you 
He  will  seem  worthy  of  your  love. 

In  common  things  that  round  us  lie 
Some  random  truths  he  can  impart— 

The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye, 
That  broods  and  sleeps  on  his  own  heart. 

The  portrait  prefixed  to  this  volume  is  one  which 
was  taken  about  1875,  and  nothing  could  better 
present  the  cheerful  and  thoughtful  dignity  of  his 
middle  life.  An  earlier  portrait,  painted  by  one  of 
the  Cranch  family  about  1842,  exists,  and  may  be 
engraved  hereafter ;  but  the  man  here  represented 
was  he  who  wrote  The  Wanderer  and  Thoreau  the 
Poet- Naturalist,  and  who,  at  Emerson's  request  a 
few  years  earlier,  had  written  of  the  woodland  ridges 
where  he  is  buried  : 

Here  shalt  thou  pause  to  hear  the  funeral  bell 
Slow  stealing  o'er  thy  heart  in  this  calm  place  ; 

Not  with  a  throb  of  pain,  a  feverish  knell, 
But  in  its  kind  and  supplicating  grace 

It  says  :  "Go,  Pilgrim,  on  thy  march  !  be  more 

Friend  to  the  friendless  than  thou  wast  before." 
xlv 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

In  selecting  the  poems  for  this  edition  the  em 
barrassment  of  the  editor  has  not  been  what  to  take, 
but  what  to  omit ;  for  the  mass  of  verse  written  by 
this  industrious  poet,  with  very  little  encourage 
ment  from  his  readers,  during  the  sixty-seven  years 
that  he  was  writing  good  verse,  is  far  greater  than  he 
or  his  most  partial  friends  would  ever  print.  In  one 
thick  volume  of  manuscript  containing  a  hundred 
and  twenty-eight  separate  poems,  written  between 
1848  and  1854,  and  carefully  indexed,  Channing 
had  afterward  inscribed  on  the  fly-leaf,  for  my  in 
struction  :  "No  poem  in  this  volume  deserves  pub 
lication—a  truly  sweeping  remark,  which  the 
posthumous  editor  is  requested  to  observe,  within 
the  proper  conditions."  Yet  among  these  several 
have  been  printed  and  much  quoted— Baker  Farm, 
for  instance,  and  The  Flight  of  Wild  Geese,  of  which 
Emerson  had  so  high  an  opinion  that  he  reserved  it 
for  Parnassus  during  many  years.  But  these  verses 
all  have  a  biographic  value,  and  contain  hundreds 
of  lines  that  would  make  the  fortune  of  a  modern 
poet  if  he  could  weave  them  skilfully  into  popular 
metres. 

Apart  from  such  compositions,  which  were  exer 
cises  rather  than  poems,  Channing  wrote  well-tuned 
verse  enough  to  fill  six  or  eight  volumes  5  and  he 
had  success  in  many  metres,  as  this  volume  will 
show  to  those  who  know  what  metrical  success  in 
xlvi 


BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION 

English  verse  is.  With  all  this  variety,  and  with  a 
true  poet's  eye,  which  no  feature  of  natural  beauty 
and  no  trait  of  human  nature  escaped,  Channing 
would  use  a  few  poetic  words  over  and  over,  until 
the  reader  almost  accused  this  imaginative  and  vo- 
cabulistic  scholar  of  poverty  in  language.  "Soft," 
"gentle,"  "air,"  "gray,"  "dim,"  "deep,"  "cold," 
"art,"  "heart,"  and  a  score  of  other  words,  inesti 
mable  in  worth  to  a  poet,  but  to  be  used  sparingly 
and  in  varied  connections,  adorn  or  disfigure  his 
fine  passages— simply  because  he  would  not  take 
the  pains  that  revision  of  inspired  verse  usually 
requires.  This  fault,  and  another  into  which  most 
poets  fall,— of  writing  too  much,— often  weary  the 
reader  who  is  at  first  delighted  with  the  fresh  origi 
nality  of  the  thought  and  the  magical  effect  of  the 
best  lines.  In  both  these  defects  he  resembled  the 
Elizabethan  poets,  and  was  not  so  far  from  the  lyric 
passages  of  Greek  poesy  as  those  are  apt  to  think 
who  seize  on  its  striking  beauties,  and  are  blind  to 
its  vague  and  darkling  significance,  even  in  some  of 
the  grandest  passages.  It  would  be  a  fine  jest  to 
turn  a  few  of  Channing's  most  enigmatic  pages  into 
Pindaric  Greek,  and  bring  them  before  the  learned 
as  newly  found  fragments  of  Alkman,  Bacchylides, 
or  Aeschylus  ;  not  one  scholar  in  ten  would  suspect 
the  fraud,  and  hundreds  of  learned  essays  would  be 
expended  on  them  in  all  the  tongues  of  Europe, 
xlvii 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

What  must  strike  every  good  reader  of  Channing's 
verse  is  the  ease  and  grace  with  which  he  rises  into 
great  rhythms  or  sinks  into  pretty  trifles  and  the 
very  simplicity  of  fanciful  childhood.  Lines  and 
whole  pages  might  be  ascribed  to  Marlowe  or  John 
son,  Fletcher  or  Donne,  and,  more  rarely,  to  Shak- 
speare ;  and  few  would  detect  the  dissimilarity. 
Was  it  Marston  who  denounced 

Those  worst  virtues  that  the  cozening  world 
Pimps  on  her  half-fledged  brood ;  old  shells  and 

worms 
That  saw  ere  deluged  Noah  at  the  plough  I 

Or  what  Elizabethan  was  it  who  described 

The  listening  city  or  the  landward  town 
That  spots  afar  the  toppling  mountain's  base  ? 

Did  Ben  Jonson  say  of  Venetia  Stanley : 

Rose  on  her  cheeks,  are  roses  in  her  heart, 
And  softer  on  the  earth  her  footstep  falls 
Than  earliest  twilight  airs  across  the  wave  ? 

Or  was  it  Crashaw  or  Fanshaw  or  Beaumont  or 
Herrick  who  wrote : 

xlviii 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION 

Some  dry  uprooted  saplings  we  have  seen 
Pretend  to  even  this  grove  of  Heaven, 

This  sacred  forest,  where  the  foliage  green 
Breathes  music  like  mild  lutes,  or  silver- 
coated  flutes, 

On  the  concealing  winds,  that  can  convey 

Never  their  tone  to  the  rude  ear  of  day  ? 

0,  si  sic  omnia !  But  Channing  had  all  the  defects 
of  his  qualities.  The  poetic  temperament,  almost 
ignored  or  forgotten  in  this  age,  when  everybody 
writes  verse  and  few  write  it  well,  ran  in  him  to 
its  most  capricious  and  traditional  extremes.  He 
would  have  been  more  appreciated  in  the  era  of 
Dray  ton  and  Spenser  j  like  them,  he  was  a  poets'  poet, 

And  such  fine  madness  he  did  still  retain 
As  rightly  should  possess  a  poet's  brain. 

As  a  new  edition  of  Thoreau  the  Poet- Naturalist  is 
soon  to  appear  in  Boston,  containing  the  Memorial 
PoemSj  which  in  Channing's  mind  were  associated 
with  his  dear  friend  Thoreau,  all  these  are  omitted 
from  this  collection  ;  but  some  will  be  added  in  that 
volume  which  have  relation  to  the  intimacy  of 
the  two  friends. 

F.  B.  S. 

CONCORD,  MASSACHUSETTS, 
February  1,  1902. 

xlix 


EAELY  POEMS  OF 
ELLERY  CHAINING 


For  the  earliest  known  poem,  The  Spider, 
see  pages  xvii-xix 


THE   BYFIELD  HILLS 

(1836) 

OTEEKE  is  a  range  of  little  barren  hills, 
J-     Skirting  a  dark  and  purely  idle  stream, 

Which  winds  among  the  fields,  as  in  a  dream 
Of  weary  man  a  heavy  sorrow  rills 
The  down-prest  spirit ;  whoso  buildeth  mills 
To  break  the  grain  on  it  I    Yet  never  deem 
These  barren  little  hills  low  as  they  seem— 
They  draw  away  from  us  a  host  of  ills. 

A  lone  flat  rock  is  sleeping  at  its  ease 
Upon  their  topmost  line,  beneath  a  wind 

That  oozes  from  the  sea,  nor  touches  trees 
In  that  bare  spot,  but  murmurs  to  the  mind 

A  misty  tune  of  gray  felicities— 
Salt  Ocean's  heart,  thy  pulse  is  strangely  kind ! 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE   YEARS 


SUNDAY   POEM 

This  is  the  strange  title  given  in  the  author's  manuscript  to  a  long  auto 
biographical  poem  dwelling  on  the  sadness  of  the  poet's  childish  life, 
the  loss  of  an  early  love  (a  subject  to  which  he  often  recurred,  as  will 
be  seen),  and  the  consolation  that  he  drew  from  the  beauties  and  protec 
tions  of  Nature  — here  typified  under  the  Goethean  name  of  The  Earth- 
Spirit.  This  latter  part  was  printed  in  1843  as  The  Earth-Spirit,  but 
without  this  weird,  pathetic  introduction.  A  portion  of  the  unprinted 
lines  are  omitted. 


ONWARD  we  float  along  the  way 
Like  straws  upon  a  rapid  river. 
Changeth  the  weather  every  day ; 
So  change  our  human  feelings  ever— 
Yes,  most  of  them  thus  change, 
And  have  a  wider  range, 
But  there  are  those  no  time  can  sever. 

"Withers  not  the  sun,  my  love  ! 

What  of  thee  is  mortal  now 
That  was  framed  in  worlds  above  ; 

Thy  full-thoughted  arched  brow, 
And  the  light  of  those  clear  eyes, 
Death  and  change  and  Time  defies. 

The  immortal  there  hath  place, 

Gladly  sits  upon  thy  frame, 
Lurketh  in  thy  sunny  face, 

In  a  wildness  none  can  tame. 
4 


SUNDAY   POEM 


Away  !  the  night  is  dark  and  drear ; 

Loud  howls  the  storm,  the  clouds  uproar, 
And  chill  as  broken  love  the  atmosphere. 
Away  !  thee,  Nature,  I  can  woo  no  more  : 
Thou  art  at  war,  and  naught  at  rest ; 
With  thee  I  never  can  be  blest. 

Thy  whirling  seas  my  feelings  jar, 

Thy  weeping  winds  and  twilight  cold  ; 
Thy  ways  my  seekings  idly  mar, 
And  I  was  in  my  youth-time  old. 
Thou  didst  set  a  glowing  stone 
In  a  golden  belt  alone,— 
To  me  thou  sayest :  "This  treasure  thine— 
It  is  the  richest  thing  of  mine." 


in 


I  stood  amazed ;  my  blood  overran 

Its  usual  channels,  till  my  veins 

Would  burst ;  I  was  again  a  man  ; 

Ending  was  here  of  all  those  pains— 
Those  cold,  chill  pains  that  crept  about  my  way, 
Those  hidden  shadows  in  the  light  of  Day. 
What !  no  more  of  them  to  see  ? 
Chains  were  off  and  roaming  free  ? 
5 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

Then  cried  I  to  the  corners  of  the  Earth  : 

"It  cannot  be— ye  mock  at  my  despair  ! 

For  I  was  destined  from  my  earliest  birth 
To  be  beloved  by  nothing  sweet  or  fair  : 
And  I  have  made  my  bed,  and  now  am  heir 

To  all  that  blackens  and  has  naught  of  mirth. 

"  I  tell  you,  sudden  fates  which  come  to  me, 

Ye  are  not  faithful !     Hear  :  my  mother  died 
Before  I  clasped  her,  and  that  parent's  knee 

Me  never  knew— my  tears  she  never  dried  ; 
But  with  the  unknown  upward  then  I  grew, 
Far  from  all  that  which  was  to  me  most  true." 

That  early  life  was  bitter  oft ; 

And  like  a  flower  whose  roots  are  dry 
I  withered  ;  for  my  feelings  soft 
Were  by  my  brothers  passed  by. 
Storm- wind  fell  on  me, 
Dark  clouds  lowered  on  me  ; 
Many  ghosts  swept  trembling  past ; 
Cold  looks  in  my  eyes  they  cast. 

IV 

Older  I  grew  then,  but  I  was  not  more 

Joy's  child  than  in  those  earlier,  other  hours  ; 

It  was  the  same  unyielding  penance  o'er. 

My  crown  was  not  of  thorns,  but  withered  flowers, 
6 


SUNDAY   POEM 

Dry  buds,  and  half-blown  roses  dry  with  dust ; 

Thorns  had  been  glorious,  glorious  by  their  side, 
For  in  their  frantic  pain  there  rises  trust, 
While  these  are  phantoms  of  what  may  have  died. 
I  see  ye  still  around  me  ; 

Why  is  it  said  ?     To  sadden  f 
That  there  is  some  joy  for  me? 
Ah  !  think  you  me  to  gladden  f 

Sang  the  voice  sweetly  :  "We  say  what  we  say ; 
There  is  joy  in  thy  cup,  there  is  sun  in  thy  day." 

I  groaned  aloud  :  "Alas,  they  mock  ! 
Stood  other  form  in  other  years,— 

Her  song,— then  came  the  lightning's  shock, 
And  the  sharp  fire  of  those  wild  tears  ; 
I  carry  them  within,  on  many  biers. 
I  stand  like  one  who  came  to  sing  with  those 

That  sang  so  sweetly,  all  of  love  and  joy ; 
Their  voices  yet !— while  I  am  hung  with  woes  ; 
Life  comes  to  me,  yet  comes  but  to  destroy." 


Then  spoke  the  Spirit  of  the  Earth, 

Her  gentle  voice  like  gliding  water's  song  : 
"None  from  my  loins  have  ever  birth 
But  they  to  joy  and  love  belong  ; 
I  faithful  am,  and  give  to  thee 
Blessings  great— and  give  them  free. 
7 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE   YEAKS 

"I  have  woven  shrouds  of  air 

In  a  loom  of  hurrying  light, 
For  the  trees  which  blossoms  bear, 

And  gilded  them  with  sheets  of  bright : 
I  fall  upon  the  grass  like  love's  first  kiss, 
I  make  the  golden  flies  and  their  fine  bliss. 

"I  paint  the  hedgerows  in  the  lane, 
And  clover  white  and  red  the  pathways  bear ; 

I  laugh  aloud  in  sudden  gusts  of  rain 
To  see  the  Ocean  lash  himself  in  air ; 
I  throw  smooth  shells  and  weeds  along  the  beach, 
And  pour  the  curling  waves  far  o'er  the  glassy 

reach  ; 

Swing  birds'  nests  in  the  elms,  and  shake  cool  moss 
Along  the  aged  beams,  and  hide  their  loss. 

"The  very  broad  rough  stones  I  gladden,  too— 
Some  willing  seeds  I  drop  along  their  sides, 
Nourish  the  generous  plant  with  freshening  dew, 
Till  there  where  all  was  waste  true  joy  abides. 
The  peaks  of  aged  mountains,  with  my  care, 

Smile  in  the  red  of  glowing  morn,  elate  ; 
I  bind  the  caverns  of  the  sea  with  hair 

Glossy  and  long,  and  rich  as  king's  estate ; 
I  polish  the  green  ice,  and  gleam  the  wall 
With  whitening  frost,  and  leaf  the  brown  trees 
tall. 

8 


SUNDAY  POEM 

VI 

"Thee  not  alone  I  leave— far  more 

Weave  I  for  thee  than  for  the  air ; 
Thou  art  of  greater  worth  than  the  sea-shore, 
And  yet  for  it  how  much  do  I  prepare  ! 
I  love  thee  better  than  the  trees— 
Yet  I  give  them  sun  and  breeze ; 
More  than  rivers  thou  to  me, 
More  I  shall  be  giving  thee  ; 
Tears  of  thine  I  '11  dry  fore'er, 
To  thee  joys  and  blisses  bear. 

"Believe  thy  Mother  for  her  worth 
(And  thou  art  a  son  of  Earth). 
Thou  hadst  many  years  of  woe  ; 
Life  was  many  times  thy  foe  ; 
But  the  stars  have  looked  from  where 
Hang  their  sparklets  in  the  air, 
And  their  faith  is  pledged  to  me 
That  they  shall  give  joy  to  thee." 


VII 

It  came  upon  me  in  a  sudden  thrill, 
It  stood  before  me— 't  was  a  thing  of  life. 

The  thoughts  rushed  out ;  I  had  not  form  nor  will ; 
I  was  in  hurrying  trance,  yet  felt  no  strife. 
9 


POEMS   OF    SIXTY-FIVE   YEAKS 

I  laughed  aloud— Death  had  crept  back  awhile ; 
I  looked  abroad— the  sunlight  seemed  to  smile. 
Joy?  joy  !  was  now  the  song. 
Like  a  torrent  crowding  strong 
To  the  endless  Sea  along. 
She  stood  before  me  in  that  veil  of  form 

(The  stars'  first  light,  dropt  from  an  urn  of  air)  ; 
Within  her  eyes  there  melted  sunlight  warm, 

Which  its  soft  heat  did  with  the  moonbeam  share  ; 
The  gushing  of  her  smile  was  like  a  stream 

Which,  when  all  round  was  crisped  with  feathery 

snow, 
Went  surging  through  the  drear  its  liquid  dream, 

In  sweet  dissolved  style,  as  angels  know. 
The  spell  that  dwelt  within  each  faintest  word 
Was  Love— the  first  my  eager  ear  had  heard. 

She  stood  before  me,  and  her  life  sank  through 
My  withering  heart  as  doth  the  piercing  dew, 
That  sinks  with  quivering  tenderness  within 
The  moss-rose  breast— till  it  to  ope  doth  win. 

YIII 

'T  was  so— ?t  was  thine  !     Earth,  thou  wert  true  ! 

I  kneel— thy  grateful  child,  I  kneel ; 
Thy  full  forgiveness  for  my  sins  I  sue. 

O  Mother  !  learn  thy  son  can  think  and  feel. 
Mother  dear  !  wilt  pardon  one 
Who  loved  not  the  generous  sun, 
10 


SUNDAY   POEM 

Nor  thy  seasons  loved  to  hear 
Chanting  to  the  busy  year ; 
Thee  neglected,  shut  his  heart- 
In  thy  being  had  no  part? 
Mother  !  now  I  list  thy  song 
In  this  autumn  eve  along, 
As  thy  chill  airs  round  the  day, 
Leaving  me  my  time  to  pray. 


Mother  dear  !  the  day  must  come 
When  thy  child  shall  make  his  home- 
My  long,  last  home— 'mid  the  grass 
Over  which  thy  warm  hands  pass. 
Ah  me  !  then  do  let  me  lie 
Gently  on  thy  breast  to  die  ! 


I  know  my  prayers  will  reach  thine  ear- 

Thou  art  with  me  while  I  ask  ; 
Nor  thy  child  refuse  to  hear, 

Who  would  learn  his  little  task. 
Let  me  take  my  part  with  thee 

In  the  gray  clouds,  or  the  light- 
Laugh  with  thee  upon  the  sea, 
Or  idle  on  the  land  by  night ; 
In  the  trees  will  I  with  thee— 
In  the  flowers,  like  any  bee. 
11 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEAES 

IX 

I  feel  it  shall  be  so  ;  we  were  not  born 

To  sink  our  finer  feelings  in  the  dust ; 
Far  better  to  the  grave  with  feelings  torn— 

So  in  our  step  strides  Truth  and  honest  trust 
In  the  great  love  of  things— than  to  be  slaves 

To  forms— whose  ringing  side  each  stroke  we 

give 
Stamps  with  a  hollo wer  void ;— yes?  to  our  graves 

Hurrying  or  e'  er  we  in  the  heavens'  look  live 
Strangers  to  our  best  hopes,  and  fearing  men, 
Yea,  fearing  death— and  to  be  born  again. 


12 


A  SONNET  TO  JOYCE  HETH, 
CENTENABIAN 

(1835) 

TNTOLEKABLE  Time  grasps  eagerly, 

A   With  hideous  Destiny,  who  sits  him  near ; 

Some  name  him  Fate— it  matters  not  to  me, 
So  that  thy  awful  durance  shall  appear. 

Old  ebon  Heth,  eternal  Black  !  strange  sight ! 
Strange,  that  thou  dost  not  bend  to  Father  Time, 
But,  rather,  boldest  confident  thy  prime, 

In  this  quick-speeding  world,  where  hovers  Night. 

Yes,  bleached  Anatomy  !  dry  skin  and  bone ! 
Thou  Grasshopper  !  thou  bloodless,  fleshless  thing, 
That  still,  with  thin  long  tongue  dost  gayly  sing  ! 

I  would  not  meet  thee  at  broad  noon  alone  ; 
For  much  I  fear  thee,  and  thy  yellow  fingers, 
Thy  cold,  sepulchral  eye,  where  moonlight 
lingers.1 


i  This  woman  was  shown  in  Boston  and  elsewhere  as  the  nurse  of  George 
Washington,  and  about  one  hundred  and  sixty  years  old ;  she  was,  in  fact, 
over  one  hundred.  This  sonnet  is  one  of  the  three  earliest  poems,  the 
November  Day  and  The  Spider  preceding  it;  all  were  written  before  Chan- 
ning  was  seventeen. 


13 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 


THE  GIFTS 

4  DROPPING  shower  of  spray 
J\.   Filled  with  a  beam  of  light  ; 
The  breath  of  smiling  Day, 
The  groves  in  wan  moonlight ; 
Yon  river's  flow, 
Some  falling  snow, 
Some  bird's  swift  flight ; 

A  summer  field  o'erstrewn 

With  gay  and  laughing  flowers, 
And  shepherds'  clocks  half-blown 
That  tell  the  merry  hours  ; 
The  spring's  soft  rain, 
The  waving  grain  ;— 
Are  these  things  ours  f 


14 


LIFE 

IT  is  a  gay  and  glittering  cloud 
Born  in  the  early  light  of  day  ; 
It  lies  upon  the  gentle  hills, 
Rosy  and  sweet  and  far  away. 

It  burns  again  when  noon  is  high— 
Like  molten  gold.it  's  clothed  in  light ; 

As  beautiful  and  glad  as  love, 
A  joyous,  soul-entrancing  sight. 

But  now  it  7s  fading  in  the  west 
As  helpless  as  a  withered  leaf, 

As  faint  as  shadow  on  the  grass 

Thrown  by  the  gleam  of  moonlight  brief. 

So  Life  is  born,  grows  up,  and  dies, 
A  cloud  upon  the  world  of  light  j 

It  comes  in  joy  and  moves  in  love, 
Then  gently  fades  away  in  night. 


15 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 
THE   STARS 

SILENT  companions  of  the  blinded  Earth, 
Day's  recollection,  enemies  of  Time  ! 
How  like  an  angel  troop,  with  folded  hopes 
Ye  patient  stand,  each  separate  in  the  azure  ! 

Hark  to  the  rushing  of  the  midnight  wind 
Falling,  with  his  resistless  scymitar, 
Upon  the  mournful  foliage  of  the  wood  ! 
Whirling  before  it,  to  the  South  they  flee, 
In  sad  confusion  to  the  sheltering  South ; 
The  yellow  grass  moans  in  the  chilling  air, 
Each  living  thing  runs  to  its  indoor  home— 
But  ye,  clear  Stars,  look  with  untrembling  eyes 
On  the  fierce  blast— far  in  your  upper  sphere. 

Where  the  wild  battle  rages,  till  the  streams 
Run  crimson  to  the  sea,  and  frightened  Death 
Falls  shuddering  at  the  slaughter,  pressing  hard 
His  icy  palms  upon  his  saddened  eyes— 
Your  mild  and  dewy  light  floats  gently  o'er, 
Sweet  as  a  mother's  thought  of  sleeping  babes. 

Through  your  deep  light  I  look,  and  see  the  abode 
Of  greater  spirits  than  our  life  sends  forth 
In  paths  of  the  green  earth  to  wander  wide  : 
I  see  a  wisdom  which  our  noisy  day, 
16 


THE  STAKS 

That  jars  our  phantom  forms  in  rude  uproar, 
Shall  never  emulate.    Unsleeping  Stars  ! 
Who  then  distrusts  the  Love  that  rules  the  world, 
Or  thinks,  though  unheard,  that  your  sphere  is 
dumb? 


17 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEAES 


A  POET'S   LOVE 

THE  running  winds  are  not  more  fleet 
That  pace  along  the  blue  sea's  floor 
Than  were  thy  tender  childhood's  feet, 
O  Girl,  the  best  that  nature  bore  ! 

I  can  remember  well 

In  very  early  youth 
My  sumptuous  Isabel, 

Who  was  a  girl  of  truth— 
Of  golden  truth  ;  we  may  not  often  see 
Those  whose  whole  lives  have  only  known— to  be. 

The  cottage  where  she  dwelt 
Was  all  o'er  mosses  green ; 
I  still  forever  felt 

How  nothing  stands  between 
The  soul  and  truth  j  why,  starving  poverty 
Was  nothing— nothing,  Isabel,  to  thee. 

Grass  beneath  her  faint  tread 

Bent  pleasantly  away ; 
From  her  no  small  birds  fled, 

But  kept  at  their  bright  play, 
Not  fearing  her— such  was  her  endless  motion, 
Just  a  true  swell  upon  a  summer  ocean. 
18 


A   POET'S   LOVE 

They  who  conveyed  her  home — 

I  mean  who  led  her  where 
The  spirit  does  not  roam— 

Had  such  small  weight  to  bear 
They  scarcely  felt  it ;  softly  was  the  kuell 
Rung  for  thee  that  soft  day,  girl  Isabel ! 

I  dwell  no  more  below  : 

My  life  is  raised  on  high. 
My  fantasy  was  slow 

Ere  Isabel  could  die  ; 
It  pressed  me  down  ;  but  now  I  sail  away 
Into  the  regions  of  exceeding  day. 

There  Isabel  and  I 

Float  on  the  red-brown  clouds 
That  amply  multiply 

The  fair  inconstant  crowds 
Of  shapes  serene.     Play  on;  Mortality  ! 
Thy  happiest  hour  is  that  when  thou  mayst  die. 


19 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE   YEARS 


ODE.     THE    RIVER 

THE  River  calmly  flows 
Through  shining  banks,  through  lonely 
glen, 
Where  the  owl  shrieks,  though  ne'er  the  cheer 

of  men 

Has  stirred  its  mute  repose  ; 
Still,  if  you  should  walk  there,  you  would  go 
there  again. 

The  stream  is  well  alive  ; 
Another  passive  world  you  see, 
Where  downward  grows  the  form  of  every  tree  ; 

Like  soft  light  clouds  they  thrive ; 
Like  them,  let  us  in  our  pure  loves  reflected  be  ! 

A  yellow  gleam  is  thrown 
Into  the  secrets  of  that  maze 
Of  tangled  trees,  that  late  shut  out  our  gaze, 

Refusing  to  be  known  ; 
It  must  its  privacy  unclose,  its  glories  blaze. 

Sweet  falls  the  summer  air 
Over  her  form  who  sails  with  me  ; 
Her  way,  like  it,  is  beautifully  free, 

Her  nature  far  more  rare  ; 
And  is  her  constant  heart  of  virgin  purity. 
20 


ODE.      THE   EIVEE 

A  quivering  star  is  seen 
Keeping  its  watch  above  the  hill, 
Though  from  the  sun's  retreat  small  light  is 

still 

Poured  on  Earth's  saddening  mien. 
We  all  are  tranquilly  obeying  Evening's  will. 

Thus  ever  love  the  Power ! 
To  simplest  thoughts  dispose  the  mind ; 
In  each  obscure  event  a  worship  find 

Like  that  of  this  dim  hour, 
In  lights,  and  airs,  and  trees— and  in  all  human 
kind. 

We  smoothly  glide  below 
The  faintly  glimmering  worlds  of  light. 
Day  has  a  charm,  and  this  deceptive  Night 

Brings  a  mysterious  show  ; 
He  shadows  our  dear  Earth— but  his  cool  stars 
are  white. 


21 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 


THE  EVENING  OF  A  NOVEMBER  DAY 

THEE,  mild  autumnal  Day, 
I  felt  not  for  myself ;  the  winds  may  steal 
From  any  point,  and  seem  to  me  alike 
Reviving,  soothing  powers. 

Like  thee  the  contrast  is 
Of  a  new  mood  in  a  decaying  man, 
Whose  idle  mind  is  suddenly  revived 

With  many  pleasant  thoughts. 

Our  earth  was  gratified  ; 
Fresh  grass,  a  stranger  in  this  frosty  time, 
Peeped  from  the  crumbling  mould,  as  welcome  as 

An  unexpected  friend. 

How  glowed  the  evening  star  ! 
As  it  delights  to  glow  in  summer's  midst, 
When  out  of  ruddy  boughs  the  twilight  birds 

Sing  flowing  harmony. 

22 


THE  EVENING  OF  A  NOVEMBER  DAY 

Peace  was  the  will  to-day ; 
Love,  in  bewildering  growth,  our  joyous  minds 
Swelled  to  their  widest  bounds ;  the  Worldly  left 

All  hearts  to  sympathize. 


I  felt  for  Thee— for  Thee, 
Whose  inward,  outward  life  completely  moves, 
Surrendered  to  the  beauty  of  the  Soul, 

On  this  creative  day. 


23 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 


TO  CLIO 

T)LANETS  bear  tnee  in  their  hands, 

A    Azure  skies  fold  over  thee  ; 

Thou  art  sung  by  angel  bands 
And  the  deep,  cold-throbbing  sea, 
Whispered  in  each  sighing  tree 
And  each  meadow's  melody. 

Where  the  sprites  outwatch  the  moon, 
Where  the  ghostly  night-breeze  swells, 

And  the  brook  prolongs  its  tune, 

Through  the  shimmering,  shadowed  dells, 

To  the  ringing  fairy  bells, 

There  thou  weavest  unknown  spells. 

In  thy  folded  trance  do  hide 
Ceaseless  measures  of  content ; 

And  thou  art  of  Form  the  bride, 
Shapely  Picture's  element. 


24 


SEA-SONG 

WAVES  on  the  beach,— and  the  wild  sea-foam,— 
With  a  leap  and  a  dash  and  a  sudden  cheer? 
Where  the  sea- weed  makes  its  bending  home, 
And  the  sea-birds  swim  on  the  crests  so  clear  ; 
Wave  after  wave  they  are  curling  o'er, 
And  the  white  sand  dazzles  along  the  shore. 

Let  our  boat  to  the  waves  go  free, 
By  the  bending  tide  where  the  curled  wave 

breaks ! 

'T  is  the  track  of  the  wind  on  the  white  snow- 
flakes. 
Away  !  away  !  in  our  path  o'er  the  sea. 

Blasts  may  rave— yet  we  spread  the  sail, 

For  our  spirits  can  wrest  the  power  from  the 

wind, 
And  the  gray  clouds  yield  to  the  sunny  mind ; 

Fear  not  we  the  whirl  of  the  gale! 


25 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE   YEAKS 


THE  HAKBOR 

NO  more  I  seek— the  prize  is  found  ; 
I  furl  my  sails,  the  voyage  is  o'er ; 
The  treacherous  waves  no  longer  sound, 
But  sing  thy  praise  along  the  shore. 

I  did  not  dream  to  welcome  thee  ; 

Like  all  I  have,  thou  earnest  unknown ; 
An  island  in  a  misty  sea, 

With  stars  and  flowers  and  harvests  strown. 

I  steal  from  all  I  hoped  of  old, 

To  throw  more  beauty  round  thy  way ; 

The  dross  I  part,  and  melt  the  gold, 
And  stamp  it  with  thy  every-day. 

A  well  is  in  the  desert  sand, 

With  purest  water,  cold  and  clear, 

Where  overjoyed  at  rest  I  stand, 

And  drink  the  sound  I  hoped  to  hear. 


26 


THE   BENIGHTED   TRAVELLER 

THE  treacherous  dark  has  razed  his  homeward 
path 5 

He  journeys  on,  slow  moving  o'er  the  moor. 
And,  like  a  spirit  from  the  heavens  sent, 
Dances  before  him  his  old  kitchen  hearth, 
His  children  round,  and  antique  serving-maid. 
The  pale  stars  glimmer  through  a  flickering  mist, 
While  chill  the  night-breeze  creeps  about  his  heart. 

His  unfamiliar  step  crushes  the  herb 

That  withered  long  ago,  untouched  before  ; 

He  stumbles  o'er  rude  stones,  and  climbs  the  hill 

To  see  the  waning  moon  with  pity  look 

On  marshes  spread  beneath,  and  endless  glades, 

Where  never  fell  his  eye  until  this  hour. 


27 


POEMS  OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 
PICTURES 

I.    STILL  WATER 

THOU,  lazy  river,  flowing  neither  way, 
Me  figurest,  and  yet  thy  banks  seem  gay ; 
I  flow  between  the  shores  of  this  large  life, 
My  banks  as  fair  as  thine,  with  joy  as  rife ; 
Thy  tides  will  swell  when  the  next  moon  comes 

round, 
But  mine  far  higher  in  their  rise  be  found. 

II.   MOONLIGHT 

HE  came,  and  waved  a  little  silver  wand ; 

He  dropt  the  veil  that  hid  a  statue  fair  ; 
He  drew  a  circle  with  that  pearly  hand, 

His  grace  confined  that  beauty  in  the  air ; 
Those  limbs  so  gentle,  now  at  rest  from  flight, 
Those  quiet  eyes,  now  musing  on  the  night. 

III.    CHARACTERS 

A  GENTLE  eye  with  a  spell  of  its  own, 
A  meaning  glance  and  a  sudden  thrill ; 

A  voice— sweet  music  in  every  tone  ; 
A  steadfast  heart  and  a  resolute  will ; 

28 


PICTUEES 

A  graceful  form  and  a  cheering  smile, 
Ever  the  same,  and  always  true. 

I  have  heard  of  this  for  a  long,  long  while 
I  have  seen  it,  known  it,  loved  it  too. 

IV.   THE   CONTRAST 

THE  gray  clouds  fly,— 
There  is  war  on  high,— 
Their  pennons  flying,  their  soldiers  dying 
They  fall  in  rain, 
But  they  leave  no  stain. 

But  the  heart's  flight 
In  the  gloomy  night, 
Its  trusting  over,  its  changing  lover  ? 
There  falls  no  rain, 
But  tears  that  pain. 


29 


POEMS   OF    SIXTY-FIVE   YEABS 


WILLINGNESS 

AN  unendeavoring  flower— how  still 
-t\-   Its  growth  from  morn  to  even-time  ! 
No  signs  of  haste  or  anger  fill 

Its  tender  form,  from  birth  to  prime 
Of  happy  will. 

And  some,  who  think  these  simple  things 
Can  bear  no  lesson  to  our  minds, 

May  learn  to  feel  what  Nature  brings, 
And  round  a  quiet  being  winds, 
And  through  us  sings. 

A  stream  to  some  is  no  delight, 
Its  elements  diffused  around  ; 

Yet  in  its  unobtrusive  flight 

There  trembles  from  its  wave  a  sound 
Like  that  of  Night. 

Take  then  thine  own  allotment  fair, 
To  others  turn  a  social  heart ; 

And  if  thy  days  pass  clear  as  air, 
Or  friends  from  thy  beseeching  part, 
Both  humbly  bear ! 


30 


AMONG  THE   LENOX   HILLS 

DEAR  Friend  !  in  this  fair  atmosphere  again, 
Far  from  the  noisy  echoes  of  the  main, 
Amid  the  world-old  mountains,  and  these  hills, 
From  whose  strange  grouping  a  fine  power  distils 
A  soothing  and  a  calm,  I  seek  repose, 
The  city's  noise  forgot— its  hard,  stern  woes. 

As  thou  once  saidst,  the  rarest  sons  of  earth 
Have  in  the  dust  of  cities  shown  their  worth, 
Where  long  collision  with  the  human  curse 
Has  of  great  glory  been  the  frequent  nurse  ; 
And  only  those  who  in  sad  cities  dwell 
Are  of  the  green  trees  fully  sensible  ; 
To  them  the  silver  bells  of  tinkling  streams 
Seem  brighter  than  an  angel's  laugh  in  dreams. 

Here  dawn,  full  noon,  evening,  and  solemn  night 
Weave  all  around  their  robes  of  changing  light ; 
And  in  the  mighty  forest  Day's  whole  time 
Is  shadowed  with  a  portraiture  sublime  : 
In  the  dark  caves  dwells  Midnight  in  her  stole, 
While  shady  Even  haunts  a  tranquil  knoll. 


31 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEAKS 


COMPANIONSHIP 

MY  mind  obeys  the  Power 
That  through  all  persons  breathes  ; 
The  woods  are  murmuring, 
And  fields  begin  to  sing, 

And  in  me  Nature  wreathes. 

Thou  too  art  with  me  here, 

The  best  of  all  design  j 
Of  that  strong  purity 
"Which  makes  it  joy  to  be 

A  distant  thought  of  thine. 


32 


THE  SEASONS 

I.   SPRING 

TEAVES  on  the  trees, 

-l^    And  buds  in  the  breeze, 

And  tall  grass  waves  on  the  meadow's  side ; 
And  a  showerlet  sweet, 
While  the  light  clouds  meet 

In  their  golden  robes,  when  Day  has  died. 

The  Scholar  his  pen 

Hath  mended  again, 
For  the  new  life  runs  in  his  wearied  veins  ; 

And  the  glad  child  flies 

To  the  flowers'  fresh  dyes, 
And  the  happy  bird  gushes  with  sudden  strains. 


n.  AUTUMN'S  APPROACH 

SUMMER  is  going, 

Cold  wind  is  blowing— 
Sign  of  the  autumn,  the  autumn  so  drear ; 

No  sower  is  sowing, 

No  mower  is  mowing— 

Seed  is  sown,  harvest  mown,  Time 's  almost  sere. 
33 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

Flowers  are  fading, 

Autumn's  wreath  's  braiding, 
To  deck  the  sad  burial,  burial  so  lone  ; 

Bees  have  done  lading, 

Finished  their  trading— 
Honey  made,  cellars  laid,  hive  almost  grown. 

Gray  clouds  are  flying, 

Gray  shades  replying ; 
Soon  shall  come  mourning— mourning  and  wail ; 

The  babe  shall  be  crying, 

The  mother  be  sighing. 
Coldly  lie,  coldly  die,  in  the  arms  of  thy  gale  ! 

III.   WINTER 

COLD  blows  the  blast, 

And  the  snow  falls  fast 
On  meadow  and  moor  and  the  deep  blue  lakes  ; 

In  the  snow-white  sheen 

The  wind  is  as  keen 
As  the  glances  which  Envy  makes. 

Merrily  by  the  hearthstone  we 
Sit  with  a  song  of  social  glee, 

While  the  blaze  of  the  red  fire  glows, 

Painting  the  sides  of  the  rafters  old 
Till  they  shine  in  the  roof  like  melted  gold, 

Under  the  piled-up,  chilling  snows. 
34 


THE   SEASONS 

Now  the  brooks  are  bound, 

They  make  no  sound, 
Still  as  the  corpse  in  its  coffin  drear ; 

While  the  icicles  shine 

As  stately  and  fine 

As  the  lamps  of  the  church  o'er  the  death-cold 
bier. 

Winter  troubleth  not  thus  ; 

There  are  joys  for  us  : 
Thine  eye  is  as  warm  as  in  summer-time, 

Thy  kiss  is  as  sweet, 

And  thy  loving  arms  meet 
As  when  rang  abroad  the  soft  wind's  chime. 


35 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEAES 


THE   SIBYL  TO  HEE   LOVEE 

ROAM— the  wide  world  before  thee— 
O'er  mount  and  vale,  o'er  stream  and  sea  ! 
Eoam  !  outspread  before  the  gale, 
Even  if  it  rend,  thy  swelling  sail ! 
Beware  of  the  sunny  isles  ! 
Trust  not  their  rosy  smiles ! 

I— what  am  I  to  thee? 
A  speck  on  thy  morning  sea  j 
Soon  shalt  thou  forget  me, 
Thou  honey-gathering  bee ! 
With  thy  laden  freight  shalt  pass 

Over  all  the  earth  to-day, 
Sweeping  o'er  the  bending  grass 

Beneath  the  wild  air's  play. 

Set  thy  canvas  to  the  wind, 

Thy  rudder  man  for  ocean  war ! 
Speeding,  leave  the  land  behind, 
Thy  rushing  course  pursuing  far  ! 
Beware  of  the  sunny  isles  ! 
Trust  not  their  rosy  smiles  ! 
36 


THE  SIBYL   TO  HER   LOVER 

Look  not  on  Beauty  for  thy  mate, 

Nor  sparkling  wine,  nor  fantasy  ! 
But  drink  the  perfect  desolate 
Of  some  wild,  lofty  misery, 
With  nerved  hand,  and  sparkling  free  ! 
Beware  of  the  sunny  isles  ! 
Trust  not  their  rosy  smiles  ! 


Bide  not  thy  time,  heed  not  thy  fate  ! 

Believe  no  truth,  respect  no  law  ! 
Fling  to  the  winds  old  Custom's  state, 
And  play  with  every  antique  saw  ! 
And  warm  and  sweet  thy  life  shall  be, 
Across  the  fathoms  of  the  sea. 


Wait  but  the  hour— thy  course  is  run ; 
Life's  carpentry  will  build  no  more  ; 
Thou  shalt  sit  silenced  in  the  dun 
Perpetual  tempest's  sluggish  roar  ; 
Those  velvet  tresses  then  shall  be 
Slimed  and  disfigured  in  the  sea. 

Away  !  away  !  thou  starlit  breath ! 

On  bended  knees  I  pray  thee,  go  ! 
Oh,  bind  thy  temples  not  with  death, 

Nor  let  thy  shadow  fall  on  snow  ! 
37 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE   YEAES 

Spread  thy  broad  canvas  to  the  breeze, 
Thy  bows  surrender  to  the  seas  ! 

Beware  of  the  sunny  isles  ! 

Trust  not  their  rosy  smiles  ! 

Thy  music  shall  the  sunset-star 

Tune  spherally  in  liquid  light ; 
Thy  jewelled  couch  the  South  inbar 
Within  the  curtains  of  her  night, 
And  fold  thee  in  her  clustering  arms, 
To  sing  thee  deep  in  dreamiest  charms. 


38 


OCTOBER 

DRY  leaves,  with  yellow  ferns,  they  are 
Fit  wreath  of  autumn— while  a  star 
Still,  bright,  and  pure  our  frosty  air 

Shivers  in  twinkling  points 
Of  thin,  celestial  hair  ; 
And  thus  one  side  of  Heaven  anoints. 

Most  quiet  in  this  sheltered  nook 
Am  I,  beneath  the  moon's  calm  look, 

From  trouble  of  the  frosty  wind 
That  curls  the  yellow  blade  : 

Though  in  my  covert  mind 
A  grateful  sense  of  change  is  made. 

To  wandering  men  how  dear  this  sight 
Of  a  cold,  tranquil  autumn  night, 

In  its  majestic,  deep  repose  ! 
Thus  should  their  genius  be, 

Not  buried  in  high  snows, 
Though  of  as  mute  tranquillity. 

An  anxious  life  they  will  not  pass, 
Nor,  as  the  shadow  on  the  grass, 
39 


POEMS  OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEAES 

Leave  no  impression  there  to  stay ; 
To  them  all  things  are  thought  j 
The  blushing  Morn's  decay, 
Our  death,  our  life,  by  this  is  taught. 


Oh,  find  in  every  haze  that  shines 
A  brief  appearance  without  lines, 

A  single  word— no  finite  joy  ; 
For  present  is  a  Power 

Which  we  may  not  annoy, 
Yet  love  him  stronger  every  hour. 


I  would  not  put  this  sense  from  me 
If  I  could  some  great  sovereign  be  ; 

Yet  will  not  task  a  fellow- man 
To  feel  the  same  glad  sense  ; 

For  no  one  living  can 
Feel,  save  his  given  influence. 


40 


UNA 

TO   ELIZABETH   HOAR 

TT7E  are  centred  deeper  far 
f  f     Than  the  eye  of  any  star, 
Nor  can  rays  of  long  sunlight 
Thread  a  pace  of  our  delight. 


In  thy  form  I  see  the  day 

Burning,  of  a  kingdom  higher, 
In  thy  silver  network  play 

Thoughts  that  to  the  Gods  aspire 
In  thy  cheek  I  see  the  flame 

Of  thy  studious  taper  burn  ; 
And  thy  Grecian  eye  might  tame 

Natures  ashed  in  antique  urn. 


So  trembling  meek,  so  proudly  strong, 
Thou  dost  to  higher  worlds  belong 
Than  where  I  sing  this  empty  song  : 
Yet  I,  a  thing  of  mortal  kind, 
Can  kneel  before  thy  pathless  mind, 
And  see  in  thee  what  my  mates  say 
Sank  o'er  Judea's  hills  one  crimson  day. 
41 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE   YEAKS 

Yet  flames  on  high  the  keen  Greek  fire, 

And  later  ages  rarefies, 
And  even  on  my  tuneless  lyre 

A  faint,  wan  beam  of  radiance  dies. 

And  might  I  say  what  I  have  thought 
Of  thee  and  those  I  love  to -day, 

Then  had  the  world  an  echo  caught 
Of  that  intense,  impassioned  lay, 

Which  sung  in  those  thy  being  sings, 

And  from  the  deepest  ages  rings. 


42 


THE   POOE 

I  DO  not  mourn  my  friends  are  false— 
I  dare  not  grieve  for  sins  of  mine  ; 
I  weep  for  those  who  pine  to  death, 

Great  God  !  in  this  rich  world  of  thine. 
These  by  their  darkened  hearthstones  sit, 

Their  children  shivering  idly  round  ; 
As  true  as  living  God,  7t  were  fit 

For  these  poor  men  to  curse  the  ground  ! 

And  those  who  daily  bread  have  none,— 

Half  starved  the  long,  long  winter's  day,- 
Fond  parents  gazing  on  their  young, 

Too  wholly  sad  one  word  to  say  : 
To  them  it  seems  their  God  has  cursed 

This  race  of  ours  since  they  were  born  ; 
Willing  to  toil— and  yet  deprived 

Of  common  wood,  or  store  of  corn. 

I  do  not  weep  for  mine  own  woes  ; 

They  are  as  nothing  in  my  eye. 
I  weep  for  them  who,  starved  and  froze, 

Do  curse  their  God  and  long  to  die. 


43 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEAES 


NATURE 

BLUE  is  the  sky  as  ever,  and  the  stars 
Kindle  their  crystal  flames  at  soft-fallen  Eve 
With  the  same  purest  lustre  that  the  East 
Worshipt ;  the  river  gently  flows  through  fields 
Wherein  the  broad-leaved  corn  spreads  out  and 

loads 

Its  ear,  as  when  its  Indian  tilled  the  soil ; 
The  dark  green  pine,  green  in  the  winter's  cold, 
Still  whispers  meaning  emblems  as  of  old  ; 
The  cricket  chirps,  and  the  sweet,  eager  birds 
In  the  sad  woods  crowd  their  thick  melodies  ; 
But  yet,  to  common  eyes,  life's  poesy 
Something  has  faded. 


44 


THE  SEA 

SOUND  on,  thou  anthem  of  the  breathless  Soul, 
Unneeding  heat,  unfathomed  and  alone  ! 
Thy  waves  in  measured  phalanx  firmly  roll, 
And  meet  the  furious  wind  in  steadfast  tone. 

Sweet  smiles  the  day-god  on  thy  green  expanse, 
And  purples  thee  with  his  sad,  fading  eve ; 

Yet  all  the  livelong  night  thy  waters  dance, 
As  mariners  the  favoring  harbors  leave. 

Thy  sunken  rocks  are  nigh  the  inconstant  shore  ; 

There  thou  hast  tribute  from  the  fisher's  boat. 
Afar  thou  art  the  play  of  him  no  more, 

But  mighty  ships  on  thy  high  mountains  float. 


45 


POEMS   OF    SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 


DEATH 

TYENEATH  the  endless  surges  of  the  deep, 

J-J  Whose  green  content  o'erlaps  them  evermore, 

A  host  of  mariners  perpetual  sleep, 

Too  hushed  to  heed  the  wild  commotion's  roar ; 
The  emerald  weeds  glide  softly  o'er  their  bones, 
And  wash  them  gently  'mid  the  rounded  stones. 

No  epitaph  have  they  to  tell  their  tale ; 

Their  birthplace,  age,  and  story  all  are  lost ; 
Yet  rest  they  deeply  as,  within  this  vale, 

These  sheltered  bodies  by  the  smooth  slates  crost 
And  countless  tribes  of  men  lie  on  the  hills, 
And  human  blood  runs  in  the  crystal  rills. 

The  air  is  full  of  men  who  once  enjoyed 
The  healthy  element,  nor  looked  beyond  ; 

Many  who  all  their  mortal  strength  employed 
In  human  kindness,  of  their  brothers  fond  5 

And  many  more  who  counteracted  fate, 

And  battled  in  the  strife  of  common  hate. 

Profoundest  sleep  enwraps  them  all  around— 

Sages  and  sires,  the  child  and  manhood  strong : 
Shed  not  one  tear,  expend  no  sorrowing  sound  ! 
'  Tune  thy  clear  voice  to  no  funereal  song  ! 
46 


DEATH 

For  Death  stands  there  to  welcome  thee  and  me, 
And  Life  hath  yet  a  steeper  mystery. 

O  Death  !  thou  art  the  palace  of  our  hopes, 
The  storehouse  of  our  joys,  great  labor's  end  ; 

Thou  art  the  bronzed  key  which  swiftly  opes 
The  coffers  of  the  Past  ;  and  thou  shalt  send 

Such  trophies  to  our  hearts  as  sunny  days, 

When  Life  upon  its  golden  harpstrings  plays. 

And  when  a  nation  mourns  a  silent  voice 
That  long  entranced  its  ear  with  melody, 

How  must  thou  in  thy  inmost  soul  rejoice 
To  wrap  such  treasures  in  thy  boundless  sea ! 

And  thou  wert  dignified  if  but  one  soul 

Had  been  enfolded  in  thy  twilight  stole. 

Triumphal  arches  circle  o'er  thy  deep, 

Dazzling  with  jewels,  radiant  with  content ; 

In  thy  vast  arms  the  sons  of  genius  sleep— 
The  carvings  of  their  spheral  monument 

Bearing  no  recollection  of  dim  Time 

Within  thy  green  and  most  perennial  prime. 

Thou  art  not  anxious  of  thy  precious  fame, 
But  comest  like  the  clouds,  soft  stealing  on  ; 

Thou  soundest  in  a  careless  key  his  name 
Who  to  thy  boundless  treasury  is  won  j 

And  yet  he  quickly  cometh  ;  for  to  die 

Is  ever  gentlest,  both  to  low  and  high. 
47 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE   YEARS 

Thou  therefore  hast  Humanity's  respect ; 

They  build  thee  tombs  along  the  green  hillside, 
And  will  not  suffer  thee  the  least  neglect, 

But  tend  thee  with  a  desolate,  sad  pride  : 
For  thou  art  strong,  O  Death  !  though  sweetly  so, 
And  in  thy  lovely  gentleness  sleeps  woe. 

I  come— I  come  !  think  not  I  turn  away  ! 

Fold  round  me  thy  gray  robe  !     I  stand  to  feel 
The  setting  of  my  last  frail,  earthly  day  : 

I  will  not  pluck  it  off,  but  calmly  kneel. 
For  I  am  great  as  thou  art,— though  not  thou,— 
And  Thought,  as  with  thee,  dwells  upon  my  brow. 

Ah  !  might  I  ask  thee,  Spirit,  first  to  tend 
Upon  those  dear  ones  whom  my  heart  has  found  ? 

And  supplicate  thee  that  I  might  them  lend 
A  light  in  their  last  hours,  and  to  the  ground 

Consign  them  still?    Yet  think  me  not  too  weak— 

Come  to  me  now,  and  thou  shalt  find  me  meek. 

Then  let  us  live  in  fellowship  with  thee ; 

Turn  ruddy  cheeks  unto  thy  kisses  pale, 
And  listen  to  thy  song  as  minstrelsy, 

And  still  revere  thee,  till  our  heart-throbs  fail : 
Sinking  within  thine  arms  as  sinks  the  sun 
Below  the  farthest  hills  when  his  day's  work  is  done. 


48 


SONNETS   OF   LOVE   AND   ASPIRATION 


rOU  art  like  that  which  is  most  sweet  and 
fair, 

A  gentle  morning  in  the  youth  of  Spring, 
When  the  few  early  birds  begin  to  sing 
Within  the  delicate  depths  of  the  fine  air  ; 
Ye  t  shouldst  thou  these  dear  beauties  much  impair, 
Since  thou  art  better  than  is  everything 
Which  either  woods  or  skies  or  green  fields  bring ; 
And  finer  thoughts  hast  thou  than  they  can  wear. 

In  the  proud  sweetness  of  thy  grace  I  see 

What  lies  within— a  pure  and  steadfast  mind, 

Which  its  own  mistress  is  of  sanctity, 
And  to  all  gentleness  hath  been  refined ; 

So  that  thy  least  breath  falleth  upon  me 
As  the  soft  breathing  of  midsummer  wind. 


The  Summer's  breath,  that  laughed  among  the 

flowers, 

Caressed  the  tender  blades  of  the  soft  grass, 
And  o'er  thy  dear  form  with  its  joy  did  pass, 

Has  left  us  now.     These  are  but  Autumn-hours, 

1  Addressed  to  Ellen  Fuller  (1841),  as  I  think  the  first  sonnet  was. 

49 


POEMS    OF   SIXTY-FIVE   YEAKS 

And  in  their  melancholy  vestures  glass 
A  feeling  that  belongs  to  deeper  powers 
Than  haunt  the  warm-eyed  June  or  spring-time 
showers— 

The  destiny  of  them  like  us,  alas  ! 


Think  not  of  Time  ;  there  is  a  better  sphere 
Kising  above  these  cold  and  shadowy  days— 

A  softer  music  than  the  gray  clouds  hear, 
That  spread  their  flying  sails  above  our  ways, 

Where  rustle  in  the  breeze  the  thin  leaves  sere, 
Or  on  the  leaden  air  dance  in  swift  maze. 


in 


I  mark  beneath  thy  life  the  virtue  shine 

That  deep  within  the  star's  eye  opes  its  day ; 

I  clutch  the  gorgeous  thoughts  thou  throw'st 

away 

From  thy  profound,  unfathomable  mine, 
And  with  them  this  mean,  common  hour  do  twine, 

As  glassy  waters  o'er  the  dry  beach  play ; 
And  I  were  rich  as  Night  them  to  combine 

With  my  poor  store,  and  warm  me  in  thy  ray. 


50 


SONNETS   OF   LOVE 

From  the  fixed  answer  of  those  dateless  eyes 
I  meet  bold  hints  of  Spirit's  mystery 

As  to  what  ?s  past— and  hungry  prophecies 
Of  deeds  to-day,  and  things  which  are  to  be 

Of  lofty  life  that  with  the  eagle  flies, 
And  lowly  love,  that  clasps  humanity. 


IV 


Earth  hath  her  meadows  green,  her  brooklets 

bright  ; 

She  hath  a  myriad  flowers  that  bloom  aloft— 
O'ershades  her  peerless  glances  with  clouds  soft, 

And  on  her  sward  dances  the  capering  light ; 

She  hath  a  full  glad  day,  a  solemn  night, 

And  showers,  and  trees,  and  waterfallings  oft. 

I  am  as  one  who  ministers  her  rite— 

Meekly  I  love  her,  and  in  her  delight : 


But  so  much  soul  hast  thou  within  thy  form, 
Than  luscious  summer  days  thou  art  yet  more  j 

And  far  within  thee  there  is  that  more  warm 
Than  ever  sunlight  to  the  wild  flowers  bore— 

Thou  who  art  mine  to  love  and  to  revere, 

Thou  great  glad  gentleness,  and  sweetly  clear ! 


51 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE    YEARS 


Hearts  of  Eternity  !  hearts  of  the  deep  ! 

Proclaim  from  land  to  sea  your  mighty  fate— 
How  that  for  you  no  living  comes  too  late, 

How  ye  cannot  in  Theban  labyrinth  creep, 

How  ye  great  harvest  from  small  surface  reap  ; 
Shout,  excellent  Band,  in  grand  primeval  strain, 
Like  midnight  winds  that  foam  along  the  main  ! 

And  do  all  things  rather  than  pause  to  weep. 

A  human  heart  knows  naught  of  littleness, 
Suspects  no  man,  compares  with  no  one's  ways— 
Hath  in  one  hour  most  glorious  length  of  days, 

A  recompense,  a  joy,  a  loveliness  : 

Like  eagle  keen,  shoots  into  azure  far, 

And,  always  dwelling  nigh,  is  the  remotest  star. 

VI 

I  love  the  universe— I  love  the  joy 

Of  every  living  thing.     Be  mine  the  sure 
Felicity  which  ever  shall  endure  ! 

While  Passion  whirls  its  madmen,  as  they  toy, 

To  hate,  I  would  my  simple  life  employ 
In  the  calm-pouring  sunlight— in  that  pure 
And  motionless  silence  ever  would  assure 

My  best  true  powers,  without  a  thought's  annoy. 
52 


SOJSTNETS   OF   LOVE 

See,  and  be  glad  !     O  high  imperial  race  ! 
Dwarfing  the  common  altitude  of  strength,— 
Learn  that  ye  stand  on  an  unshaken  base  ! 

Be  glad  in  woods,  o'er  sands,  by  marsh  or 

streams ! 
Your  powers  will  carry  you  to  any  length. 

Up  !  earnestly  feel  these  gentle  sunset  beams  ! 


53 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE   YEAES 


THE   SLEEPING  CHILD 

(WALDO  EMERSON,  DEAD) 

(1843) 

DAKKNESS  now  hath  overpaced 
Life's  swift  dance  ;  and  curtained  Awe 
Feebly  lifts  a  sunken  eye, 

Wonted  to  this  gloomy  law. 
Lips  are  still  that  sweetly  spoke  ; 
Heedless  Death  the  spell  hath  broke. 

Weep  not  for  him,  friends  so  dear  ! 

Largest  measure  he  hath  taken. 
Now  he  roams  the  sun's  dominion, 

Our  chill  fortunes  quite  forsaken  ; 
There  his  eyes  have  purer  sight 
In  that  calm,  reflected  light. 

Let  your  tears  dissolve  in  peace  ! 

For  he  holds  high  company  ; 
And  he  seeks,  with  famous  men, 

Statelier  lines  of  ancestry  ; 
He  shall  shame  the  wisest  ones 
In  that  palace  of  the  suns. 


54 


ENGLAND,   IN  AFFLICTION 

(1843) 

THOU  Sea  of  circumstance,  whose  waves  are  ages, 
On  whose  high  surf  the  fates  of  men  are 

thrown ! 

Thou  writing  from  the  calm,  eternal  pages, 
Whose  letters  secret  unto  Him  alone 
Who  writ  that  scroll  forever  shall  be  known ! 
I  deem  not  of  thy  inmost  to  discover, 
Yet  oh,  forget  not  I  am  thy  true  lover. 

Home  of  the  Brave  !  deep-centred  in  the  Ocean— 
Cradle  where  rocked  the  famous  bards  of  old, 

Consummate  masters  of  the  heart's  emotion, 
Free,  genial  intellects  by  Heaven  made  bold ! 
My  blood  I  should  disown,  and  deem  me  cold, 

If  I  did  not  revere  thy  matchless  sons— 

Of  all  Time's  progeny  the  noblest  ones. 

What  though  the  calm  Elysium  of  the  air 

Hangs  violet  draperies  o'er  the  Grecian  fanes? 
What  though  the  fields  of  Italy  are  fair  ? 
Above  them  England  towers,  with  mightier 

gains ; 

Yet,  tell  me,  are  her  sons  bound  fast  in  chains  f 
55 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEAES 

The  fearful  note  of  misery  sounds  so  high 
From  her  wide  plains  up  to  her  clouded  sky. 

In  woodland  churches  rising  forest-free, 

Network  of  threaded  granite,  textured  fine, 

And  stamped  with  countenance  of  sanctity,— 
With  arches  waving  like  the  pointed  pine, 
Where  spires  and  cones  and  rugged  barks 
entwine,— 

Their  cloisters  shadowy  in  the  light  of  noon, 

Their  tall,  dim  steeples  misty  in  the  moon  ; 

Thy  surplice— shall  it  hide  a  purse  of  gold? 

The  smooth  and  roted  sermon  doff  to  Fame  ? 
Extinguished  every  aspiration  bold, 

While  only  sounds  some  formal,  empty  name  ? 
Shall  her  old  churches  make  proud  England 

tame? 
Throw  ashes  in  those  hearts  where  once  coursed 

blood, 

And  blind  those  streaming  eyes  from  sight  of 
good? 

England  !— the  name  hath  bulwarks  in  the  sound, 
And  bids  her  people  own  the  State  again  ; 

Bids  them  to  dispossess  their  native  ground 
From  out  the  hands  of  titled  noblemen ; 
Then  shall  the  scholar  freely  wield  his  pen, 
56 


ENGLAND,   IN   AFFLICTION 

And  shepherds  dwell  where  lords  keep  castle 

now, 
And  peasants  cut  the  overhanging  bough. 

Fold  not  thy  brawny  arms  as  though  thy  toil 
Was  done,  nor  take  thy  drowsy  path  toward 
sleep ! 

There  never  will  be  leisure  on  thy  soil, 
There  never  will  be  idless  on  thy  steep  ; 
So  long  as  thou  sailst  the  unsounded  deep, 

New  conquests  shall  be  thine,  new  heritage, 

Such  as  the  world's  whole  wonder  must  engage. 


57 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 


THE  BEGGAR'S  WISH 

(1843) 

OSPAEE  from  all  thy  luxury 
A  tear  for  one  who  may  not  weep  ! 
Whose  heart  is  like  a  wintry  sea, 
So  still  and  cold  and  deep. 

JSTor  shed  that  tear  till  I  am  laid 
Beneath  the  fresh-dug  turf  at  rest. 

And  o'er  my  grave  the  elm -tree's  shade 
That  hides  the  robin's  nest. 


58 


A   POET'S   HOPE 


The  tradition  of  the  composition  of  this  daring  poem  is  thus:  Ellery 
Channing,  a  young  poet,  was  calling  on  the  wife  of  his  friend  S.  Or.  Ward, 
herself  a  vision  of  grace  and  beauty  — ' '  tremulous  with  grace, ' '  said 
Emerson.  She  challenged  him,  in  conversation  half  serious,  to  write  her 
a  poem ;  he  withdrew  into  an  anteroom  where  were  writing-materials, 
and,  offhand,  in  a  very  short  time  had  improvised  these  verses,  now  the 
best  known,  by  reason  of  their  last  line,  of  all  his  early  poems.  It  would 
be  hard  to  match  the  whole  piece  for  wild  and  sustained  imagination 
and  a  magical  harmony  of  verse  in  its  best  stanzas. 


FLYING— flying  beyond  all  lower  regions. 
Beyond  the  light  called  Day,  and  Night's 

repose, 
Where  the  untrammelled  soul,  on  her  wind-pinions 

Fearlessly  sweeping,  defies  my  earthly  woes ; 
There,  there,  upon  that  infinitest  sea, 
Lady  !  thy  hope— so  fair  a  hope— summons  me. 

Fall  off,  ye  garments  of  my  misty  weather  ! 

Drop  from  my  eyes,  ye  scales  of  Time's  applying  ! 
Am  I  not  godlike  ?     Meet  not  here  together 

A  Past  and  Future  infinite,  defying 
The  cold,  still,  callous  moment  of  To-day? 
Am  I  not  master  of  the  calm  alway  ? 

Unloose  me,  demons  of  dull  Care  and  Want ! 

I  will  not  stand  your  slave— I  am  your  king  : 
Think  not  within  your  meshes  vile  I  pant 

For  the  wild  liberty  of  an  undipped  wing  ! 
My  empire  is  myself,  and  I  defy 
The  external ;  yes,  I  rule  the  whole,  or  die ! 

59 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEAES 

All  music  that  the  fullest  breeze  can  play 
In  its  melodious  whisperings  in  the  wood, 

All  modulations  which  entrance  the  day 
And  deify  a  sunlight  solitude, 

All  anthems  that  the  waves  sing  to  the  Ocean 

Are  mine  for  song— and  yield  to  my  devotion. 

Lady  !  there  is  a  hope  that  all  men  have— 
Some  mercy  for  their  faults,  a  grassy  place 

To  rest  in,  and  a  flower-strewn  gentle  grave ; 
Another  hope  doth  purify  our  race— 

That  when  the  fearful  bourne  7s  forever  past, 

They  may  find  rest— and  rest  so  long  to  last ! 

I  seek  it  not ;  I  ask  no  rest  forever  ; 

My  path  is  onward  to  the  farthest  shores  : 
Upbear  me  in  your  arms,  unceasing  Kiver, 

That  from  the  Soul's  clear  fountain  swiftly  pours  ! 
Motionless  not,  until  that  end  is  won 
Which  now  I  feel  hath  scarcely  felt  the  sun. 

To  feel,  to  know— to  soar  unlimited 

'Mid  throngs  of  light- winged  angels  sweeping 

far, 
And  pore  upon  the  realms  unvisited 

That  tessellate  some  unseen,  unthought  Star  ! 
To  be  the  thing  that  now  I  feebly  dream, 
Flashing  within  my  faintest,  deepest  gleam. 

60 


A  POET'S  HOPE 

Ah,  caverns  of  my  soul !  how  thick  your  shade, 
Where  glows  that  light  by  which  I  faintly  see  ! 

Wave  your  bright  torches  !  for  I  need  your  aid, 
Golden-eyed  demons  of  my  ancestry  ! 

Your  son,  now  blinded,  hath  a  light  within, 

A  heavenly  fire— which  ye  from  suns  did  win. 

0  Time  !     O  Death  !     I  clasp  you  in  my  arms ; 
For  I  can  soothe  an  infinite  cold  sorrow, 

Gazing  contented  on  your  icy  charms, 
And  that  wild  snow-pile  which  we  call  To 
morrow  : 

Sweep  o'er,  O  soft  and  azure-lidded  sky ! 
Earth's  waters  to  your  genial  gaze  reply. 

1  am  not  earth-born,  though  I  here  delay ; 
Hope's  child,  I  summon  infiniter  powers, 

And  laugh  to  see  the  mild  and  sunny  day 

Smile  on  the  shrunk  and  thin  autumnal  hours. 
I  laugh,  for  Hope  hath  happy  place  with  me  : 
If  my  bark  sinks,  't  is  to  another  sea. 


61 


POEMS  OF  YOUTHFUL 
FAMILY  LIFE 


Taken  chiefly  from  the  edition  of  1847 


NEW  ENGLAND 

I  WILL  not  sing  for  gain,  nor  yet  for  fame, 
Though  praise  I  shall  enjoy  if  come  it  may ; 
I  will  not  sing  to  make  my  nature  tame— 
And  thus  it  is  if  I  seek  Fortune's  way  : 
But  I  will  chant  a  rude  heroic  lay 
On  rough  New  England's  coast,  whose  sterile  soil 
Gives  happiness  and  dignity  to  Toil. 

In  a  New  England  hand  the  lyre  must  beat 
With  brave  emotions  ;  such  the  winter  wind 

Sweeps  on  chill  pinions,  when  the  cutting  sleet 
Doth  the  bare  traveller  in  the  fields  half  blind, 
And,  freezing  to  the  trees,  congeals  a  rind 

Next  day  more  brilliant  than  the  Arab  skies, 

Or  plumes  from  gorgeous  birds  of  paradise. 

A  bold  and  nervous  hand  must  strike  the  strings- 

Our  varying  climate  forms  its  children  so  ; 
And  what  we  lack  in  Oriental  things 
We  render  good  by  that  perpetual  blow 
Which  wears  away  the  strongest  rocks,  we 

know ; 

Sure  in  supply,  and  constant  in  demand— 
Active  and  patient— fit  to  serve  or  stand. 

65 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE   YEARS 

They  do  malign  us  who  contract  our  hope 
To  prudent  gain  or  blind  religious  zeal ; 

More  signs  than  these  shine  in  our  horoscope— 
Nobly  to  live,  to  do,  and  dare,  and  feel, 
Knit  to  each  other  by  firm  bands  of  steel  5 

Our  eyes  to  God  we  turn,  our  hearts  to  Home, 

Standing  content  beneath  the  azure  dome. 


My  Country  !  't  is  for  thee  I  strike  the  lyre  ; 
My  Country,  wide  as  is  the  free  wind's  flight ! 

I  sing  New  England,  as  she  lights  her  fire 

In  every  Prairie's  midst,  and  where  the  bright 
Enchanting  stars  shine  pure  through  Southern 
night  ; 

She  still  is  there,  a  guardian  on  the  tower, 

To  open  for  the  world  a  purer  hour. 


Could  they  but  know  the  wild,  enchanting  thrill 
That  in  our  homely  houses  fills  the  heart ! 

Or  feel  how  faithfully  New  England's  will 
Beats  in  each  artery  and  each  small  part 
Of  this  great  Continent,  their  blood  would  start 

In  Georgia,  or  where  Spain  once  sat  in  state, 

Or  Texas,  'neath  her  lone  star  desolate. 


66 


NEW   ENGLAND 

Because  they  shall  be  free,— we  wish  it  thus ; 

In  vain  against  our  purpose  may  they  turn ! 
They  are  our  brothers  and  belong  to  us— 

And  on  our  altars  Slavery  shall  burn, 

Its  ashes  buried  in  a  silent  urn. 
Think  not  this  is  a  vain  New  England  boast ! 
We  love  the  distant  West,  the  Atlantic  coast. 

'T  is  our  New  England  thought  to  make  this  land 
The  very  home  of  Freedom,  the  sure  nurse 

Of  each  sublime  emotion  ;  she  doth  stand 

Between  the  sunny  South  and  the  dread  curse 
Of  God— who  else  should  her  whole  race 
inhearse, 

With  condemnation  to  this  Union's  life  : 

We  stand  to  heal  this  plague,  and  banish  strife.1 

I  do  not  sing  of  this,  but  hymn  the  day 
That  gilds  our  cheerful  villages  and  plains, 

Our  hamlets,  strewn  at  distance  on  each  way, 
Our  forests,  and  our  ancient  streams'  domains  ; 
We  are  a  band  of  brothers,  and  our  gains 

Are  freely  shared  ;  no  beggar  in  our  roads, 

Content  and  peace  within  our  fair  abodes. 

1  It  should  be  remembered  that  this  was  written  nearly  twenty 
years  before  final  emancipation. 


67 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEAES 

In  my  small  cottage  on  the  lonely  hill,1 
Where  like  a  hermit  I  must  bide  my  time, 

Surrounded  by  a  landscape  lying  still 

All  seasons  through,  as  in  this  winter's  prime,  - 
Rude,  and  as  homely  as  these  verses  chime,— 

I  have  a  satisfaction  which  no  king 

Has  often  felt— if  Fortune's  happiest  thing. 

'T  is  not  my  fortune— which  is  mainly  low  ; 

'T  is  not  my  merit— that  is  nothing  worth  ; 
'T  is  not  that  I  have  stores  of  Thought  below, 

Which  everywhere  might  build  up  Heaven  on 
earth ; 

Nor  was  I  highly  favored  in  my  birth  ; 
Few  friends  have  I— and  they  are  much  to  me, 
Yet  fly  above  my  poor  society.2 


But  all  about  me  live  New  England  men,— 
Their  humble  houses  meet  my  daily  gaze,— 

The  children  of  this  land,  where  life  again 
Flows  like  a  great  stream  in  sunshiny  ways  ; 
This  is  my  joy,— to  know  them,— and  my  days 

Are  filled  with  love  to  meditate  on  them— 

These  native  gentlemen  on  Nature's  hem. 


1  Ponkatasset. 

2  These,  in  1846,  were  Alcott,  Emerson,  Hawthorne,  and  Thoreau. 

68 


NEW   ENGLAND 

If  I  could  take  one  feature  of  their  life, 
Then  on  my  page  a  mellow  light  should  shine  : 

Their  days  are  holy  days,  with  labor  rife— 
Labor,  the  song  of  praise,  that  sounds  divine, 
And  better  than  all  sacred  hymns  of  mine  ; 

The  patient  Earth  sets  platters  for  their  food— 

Corn,  milk,  and  apples,  and  the  best  of  good. 

See  here  no  shining  scenes  for  artist's  eye— 

This  woollen  frock  shall  make  no  painter's  fame, 

These  homely  tools  all  burnishing  defy  ; 

The  beasts  are  slow  and  heavy,  still  or  tame  j 
The  sensual  eye  may  think  this  labor  lame  j 

'T  is  in  the  Man  where  lies  the  sweetest  art, 

And  his  endeavor  in  his  earnest  part. 

The  wind  may  blow  a  hurricane,  but  he 
Goes  fairly  onward  with  the  thing  in  hand ; 

He  sails  undaunted  on  the  crashing  sea, 

Beneath  the  keenest  winter  frost  doth  stand ; 
And  by  his  will  he  makes  his  way  command — 

Till  every  season  smiles  delight  to  feel 

The  grasp  of  his  hard  hand,  encased  in  steel. 

He  meets  the  year  confiding ;  no  great  throws 
That  suddenly  bring  riches  doth  he  use  ; 

But  like  Thor's  hammer  vast,  his  patient  blows 
Vanquish  his  difficult  tasks  ;  he  doth  refuse 
To  tread  the  path,  nor  know  the  way  he  views : 
69 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE   YEAES 

No  sad,  complaining  words  lie  uttereth, 
But  draws  in  peace  a  free  and  hearty  breath. 

I  love  to  meet  him  on  the  frozen  road  j 
How  manly  is  his  eye,  as  clear  as  air  ! 

He  cheers  his  beasts  without  the  brutal  goad ; 
His  face  is  ruddy  and  his  features  fair, 
His  brave  "Good  day'7  sounds  like  an  honest 
prayer. 

This  man  is  in  his  place  ;  he  feels  his  trust ; 

'T  is  not  dull  plodding  through  the  heavy  crust. 

And  when  I  have  him  at  his  pleasant  hearth, 
Within  his  homestead,  where  no  ornament 

Glows  on  his  mantel  but  his  own  true  worth, 
I  feel  as  if  within  an  Arab's  tent ; 
His  hospitality  is  more  than  meant ; 

I  there  am  welcome  as  the  sunlight  is— 

I  must  feel  warm  to  be  a  friend  of  his. 

This  man  takes  pleasure  o'er  the  crackling  fire  ; 
His  glittering  axe  subdued  the  monarch  oak— 
He  earned  the  cheerful  blaze  by  something  higher 
Than  pensioned  blows ;  he  owned  the  tree  he 

stroke, 

And  knows  the  value  of  the  distant  smoke, 
When  he  returns  at  night,  his  labor  done, 
Matched  in  his  action  with  the  long  day's  sun. 

70 


NEW   ENGLAND 

How  many  brave  adventures  with  the  cold 
Built  up  this  cumbrous  cellar  of  plain  stone  ! 

How  many  summer  heats  the  bricks  did  mould 
That  make  this  ample  fireplace  !  and  the  tone 
Of  twice  a  thousand  winds  sings  through  the  zone 

Of  rustic  paling  round  this  modest  yard  ; 

These  are  the  verses  of  this  simple  bard. 

Who  sings  the  praise  of  Woman  in  our  clime  ? 
I  do  not  boast  her  beauty  or  her  grace  ; 

Some  humble  duties  render  her  sublime— 

She,  the  sweet  nurse  of  this  New  England  race, 
The  flower  upon  the  country's  sterile  face— 

The  Mother  of  New  England's  sons,  the  pride 

Of  every  house  where  those  good  sons  abide. 

From  early  morn  to  fading  eve  she  stands, 
Labor's  best  offering  on  the  shrine  of  worth 

(And  Labor's  jewels  glitter  on  her  hands), 
To  animate  the  heaviness  of  earth, 
To  make  a  plenty  out  of  partial  dearth, 

To  cheer  and  serve  serenely  through  her  pain, 

And  nurse  a  vigorous  race,  and  ne'er  complain. 

There  is  a  Roman  splendor  in  her  smile, 
A  tenderness  that  owes  its  depth  to  toil ; 

Well  may  she  leave  the  smooth,  voluptuous  wile 
That  forms  the  woman  of  a  softer  soil ; 
Herself  she  does  pour  forth  a  fragrant  oil 
71 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

Upon  the  dark  asperities  of  Fate, 
And  makes  a  garden— else  all  desolate. 


With  natural,  honest  bearing  of  their  lot, 
Cheerful  at  work,  and  happy  when  't  is  done, 

They  shine  like  stars  within  the  humblest  cot ; 
All  speak  for  Freedom,  centred  all  in  one  ; 
From  every  river's  side  I  hear  the  son 

Of  some  New  England  woman  answer  me  : 
"Joy  to  our  mothers,  who  did  make  us  free  ! " 


I  never  knew  New  England  wife  cast  down, 
Though  terrible  indeed  have  come  the  blows 

Of  agony  ;  yet  through  the  storm  the  crown 
Of  gentlest  patience  rested  on  her  brows  ; 
Chaste  as  an  icicle,— her  marriage  vows 

Serenely  kept,— heroic  to  the  end, 

She  was  the  child  and  mother,  wife  and  friend. 


These  are  our  men  and  women— this  the  sight 
That  greets  me  daily  when  I  pass  their  homes  ; 

It  is  enough  for  me  ;— it  sheds  a  light 

Over  the  gloomiest  hours  :  my  fancy  roams 
No  more  to  Greece  or  Italy— the  loams 

Whereon  we  tread  are  sacred  by  the  lives 

Of  those  who  till  them  ;  and  our  comfort  thrives. 
72 


NEW   ENGLAND 

Vainly  ye  pine-woods  rising  on  the  height 

Should  lift  your  verdant  boughs  and  cones  aloft ! 

Vainly  ye  winds  should  surge  around  in  might, 
Or  o'er  the  meadows  murmur  stanzas  soft ! 
To  me  should  nothing  yield  or  lake  or  croft 

Had  not  the  figures  of  the  pleasant  scene, 

Like  trees  and  fields,  an  innocent  demean. 


Therefore  I  love  a  cold  arid  flinty  realm  ; 

I  love  the  sky  that  hangs  New  England  o'er  ; 
And  if  I  were  embarked,  and  at  the  helm, 
1 'd  run  my  vessel  on  New  England's  shore, 
And,  dashed  upon  her  crags,  would  live  no 

more, 

Kather  than  go  to  seek  a  land  of  graves 
Where  men  who  tread  the  fields  are  cowering 
slaves. 


I  love  the  mossy  rocks,  so  strangely  rude, 
The  little  forests,  underwoods  and  all ; 

I  love  the  damp  paths  of  the  solitude, 
Where,  in  the  tiny  brook,  some  waterfall 
Gives  its  small  shower  of  diamonds  to  the  thrall 

Of  light's  pursuing  reflex,  while  the  trill 

Of  the  cascade  enhances  silence  still. 

73 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE   YEAES 

I  love  the  cold,  sad  Winter's  lengthening  while, 
When  man  doth  ache  with  frost,  and  Nature 
seems 

To  leer  and  grimace  with  an  icy  smile — 
And  all  her  little  life  is  held  in  dreams ; 
I  love  it— even  when  the  far  sunbeams 

Look  through  the  cloud  in  faces  filled  with  woe, 

Like  mourners  who  to  funerals  do  go. 


Search  me,  ye  wintry  winds  !  for  I  am  proof; 
New  England's  kindness  circles  through  my 
heart. 

I  see  afar  that  old  declining  roof, 

Where  underneath  dwells  something  that  is  part 
Of  Nature's  sweetest  music  ;  through  me  dart 

Your  coldest  spasms  !  there  burns  manhood's  fire  ; 

I  sit  by  that  as  warm  as  I  desire. 


Or  if  the  torrid  August  sun  scalds  down, 

And  on  my  brow  stand  the  big  drops  like  rain, 

I  can  enjoy  such  fire,  and  call  it  crown 
To  my  content ;  it  ripens  golden  grain, 
New  England  corn— I  prize  the  fervid  pain  j 

Some  honest  hand  has  planted  comfort  there, 

And  fragrant  coolness  soon  steals  through  the  air. 

74 


NEW   ENGLAND 

It  is  a  happy  thought  that  I  was  born 

In  rough  New  England— here  that  I  may  be 

Among  a  race  who  all  mankind  adorn, 
A  plain,  strong  race,  deep-rooted  as  a  tree. 
And  I  am  most  content  my  ancestry 

Dates  back  no  further  than  New  England's  date— 

What  worth  hath  king  or  lord  where  Man  is  State  ? 


75 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEAES 

THE  WANDEEEE 

"TTTHO  is  that  wight  who  wanders  there 
f  T     So  often  o'er  these  lonely  fields  ? 
Can  solitude  his  thought  repair, 

Or  filch  the  honey  that  it  yields  ? 
I  see  him  often  by  the  Brook  ; 

He  pauses  on  some  little  rock, 
Or,  sheltered  in  a  sunny  nook, 

He  sits,  nor  feels  the  sharp  wind's  shock. 

"I  meet  him  in  the  lonely  lane 

Where  merrily  I  drive  my  team ; 
I  seek  his  downcast  eye  in  vain, 

To  break  the  silence  of  his  dream. 
Yet  sometimes,  when  I  fell  the  trees, 

He  muses  with  a  saddened  eye, 
While  leaps  the  forest  like  the  seas 

When  tide  and  wind  are  running  high. 

"And  never  questions  he  a  word 
Of  what  I  do  or  where  I  go  ; 
His  gentle  voice  I  never  heard— 

His  voice,  they  say,  is  sweetly  low. 
And  once,  at  sunset,  on  the  hill 

He  stood,  and  gazed  at  scenes  afar  ; 
While  fell  the  twilight  o'er  the  rill, 
And  glittered  in  the  west  a  star. 
76 


THE   WANDEKEK 

"I  cannot  see  his  years  improve  ; 

He  leaves  no  tokens  on  the  way ; 
'T  is  simply  breathing— or  to  move 

Like  some  dim  spectre  through  the  day ; 
And  yet  I  love  him— for  his  form 

Is  graceful  as  a  maiden's  sigh  ; 
And  something  beautiful  and  warm 

Is  shadowed  in  his  quiet  eye." 

Thus  spoke  the  driver  of  the  wain 

As  solemnly  he  passed  along. 
This  man,  unknown  to  fame  or  gain, 

But  hero  of  one  Poet's  song  : 
And  there  he  wanders  yet,  I  trust— 

A  figure  pensive  as  the  scene, 
Created  from  the  common  dust, 

Yet  treading  o'er  the  grasses  green. 


77 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 


THE  CONCORD  SEXTON'S  STORY 

This  story  arrested  the  attention  of  Hawthorne,  then  living  at  the  Old 
Manse,  and  he  desired  to  know  whence  I  had  obtained  it.  It  is  abso 
lutely  my  sole  invention,  from  beginning  to  end. — W.  E.  C.  in  1897. 

THESE  quiet  meadows,  and  the  sloping  bank 
With  its  green  hem  of  hardy  pines,  whose 

leaves 

The  sudden  frosts  and  sodden  Autumn  rains 
Cannot  displace,  have  been  the  scene  of  conflict. 
Housed  in  the  yielding  sand  that  shapes  the  bank, 
The  early  Settlers  lodged  their  sturdy  frames ; 
And  on  these  meadows,  where  the  Brook  overflows, 
They  saw  the  Indians  glide— their  dusky  hue 
Agreeing  with  the  brown  and  withered  grass  : 
Their  memory  yet  endures,  to  paint  this  scene, 
And  oft,  as  I  sit  musing,  they  become 
Scarcely  less  living  than  in  days  of  old. 

Noble  adventurers  !  godlike  Puritans  ! 

Poets  in  deed  !  who  came  and  saw  and  braved 

The  accumulated  Wilderness,  and  read  therein 

The  fatal  policy  of  Indian  guile— 

May  we,  your  sons,  thus  conquer  the  wild  foes 

Who  aim  their  shafts  at  your  sublime  design  ! l 

1  Alluding,  doiibtless,  to  the  slave-oligarchy  then  (in  1846) 
annexing  Texas  and  fighting  Mexico. 

78 


THE   CONCORD   SEXTON'S   STOEY 

It  was  a  Winter's  day.     The  air  came  keen 
Across  the  meadows,  sheeted  with  pure  snow 
New  fallen,  that  now,  as  downward  wheeled  the 

day, 

Had  ceased  to  fall ;  and,  the  clouds  parting  off, 
Mild  showers  of  light  spread  o'er  the  groves  and 

fields ; 

Then,  as  the  light  grew  brighter,  the  wind  failed, 
And  with  the  calm  came  a  most  perfect  frost. 

The  Sexton  of  our  village  was  an  old 
And  weather-beaten  artisan,  whose  life 
Led  him  to  battle  with  the  depths  of  cold. 
Amid  the  woods  he  plied  a  vigorous  arm  ; 
The  tall  trees  crashed  in  thunder  at  his  stroke, 
And  a  hale  cheer  was  spread  about  his  form. 
Death  does  not  stand  or  falter  at  the  cold, 
And  our  brave  Sexton  plied  his  pickaxe  bright, 
Whether  the  soft  snow  fell,  or  'mid  the  rains  ; 
This  day,  this  Winter's  day,  he  'd  made  a  grave 
For  a  young  blossom  that  the  frost  had  nipped  ; 
And,  toward  the  sunset  hour,  he  took  his  way 
Across  the  meadows  wide,  and  o'er  the  Brook 
Beyond  the  bridge,  and  through  the  leafless  arch 
Of  willows  that  supports  the  sunken  road, 
To  the  sad  house  of  Death.1 


1  This  describes  exactly  the  turnpike  on  which,  near  Emerson's  garden, 
the  poet  was,  in  1844,  living,  in  the  Red  Lodge. 

79 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE   YEAES 

The  Sexton  had  forgotten  what  Death  is, 
For  Death  provided  him  with  home  and  bread, 
And  graves  he  dealt  in  as  some  deal  in  farms. 
He  reached  the  house  of  Death,— a  friendly 

house,— 

And  sat  in  peace  to  see  the  wood-fire  flash 
Its  cheerful  warmth,  and  then  he  spoke  as  one 
Who  came  from  living  worlds,  though  in  that 

house 

There  was  a  pensive  figure  in  one  seat, 
Which  the  pale  mother,  with  her  tear-stained 

eyes, 
Looked  on  and  drooped  her  head  ;  the  father, 

too. 

When  he  stepped  forth  upon  his  homeward  path 
('T  was  a  short  saunter  to  the  village  church) 
A  change  was  in  the  sky  ;  a  wild  wind  blew  ; 
The  frost  was  tired  of  silence,  and  now  played 
A  merry  battle -march  with  the  light  snow 
That  whirled  across  the  road  in  dizzy  sport. 
From  the  low  hills  that  hem  the  meadows  in 
The  Sexton  heard  the  music  of  the  pines— 
A  sudden  gush  of  sounds,  as  when  a  flock 
Of  startled  birds  are  beating  through  the  air 
And  tossing  off  the  snow  from  their  quick  wings. 
Then  came  a  heavier  blast  than  all  before, 
And  beat  upon  the  cheerful  Sexton's  front. 
80 


THE  CONCORD  SEXTON'S  STORY 

He  ploughed  along  the  way— nor  fence  nor  shrub, 
And  a  dark  curtain  in  the  air ;  the  stars 
Were  flickering,  as  the  distant  light-boat  moored 
Shifts  to  the  pilot's  eye,  each  breaking  wave. 

His  eye,  not  eager,  sought  the  willow  arch,— 
"A  little  onward  to  the  bridge,"  he  thought,— 
And  turning  beat  his  stout  arms  on  his  breast, 
Then  turned  and  faced  the  wintry  surge  again. 
One  step— and  then  his  foot  sank  through ;  the 

edge 

It  was  of  the  deep  Brook  that  wandered  down 
The  dreary  meadows,  sinuous  in  its  course. 
The  Sexton's  feet  slipped  o'er  the  glassy  plate ; 
He  was  across— across  the  meadow  Brook. 
He  sank  upon  the  snow  and  breathed  a  prayer. 

And  one  dark,  warning  figure,  wintry  Death, 
Stood  on  the  bank  and  said  with  gentle  voice  : 
"Yes,  now  across  the  Brook  thy  feet  have  come— 
The  deep  black  Brook  ;  't  was  never  known  to 

freeze, 

Yet  has  upborne  thee  on  its  icy  scale, 
Where  but  a  feather's  weight  had  turned  the 

beam : 

Yet  by  no  chance— since  this  a  lesson  is 
To  teach  thee,  if  the  burial  and  the  tomb 
Consign  to  rest  the  palsied  shapes  of  Life, 
81 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEAES 

How  grand  that  hour  must  be  when  the  bright 

soul, 

Led  by  my  hand,  draws  near  to  the  deep  stream 
Across  whose  icy  flow  no  mortal  walks— 
In  whose  still,  unvexed  depths  the  hosts  of  men, 
Each  other  following,  sink  without  return." 


There  stood  a  laborer's  cottage  not  far  off, 
Where  the  day's  toil  was  over,  and  they  sat, 
The  family,  about  the  crackling  fire 
In  merry  mood,  and  heard  the  spinning  wheels 
Hum  like  a  swarm  of  bees  in  Summer-time, 
For  all  the  wind's  loud  bluster  and  the  cold 
That  like  a  cunning  thief  crept  round  the  hut. 
They  sudden  hear  a  lamentable  sound— 
A  voice  in  wild  despair  imploring  aid. 
The  voice  comes  from  the  meadow ;  then  his  dog 
The  laborer  calls,  and,  muffling  in  his  frock, 
He  finds  the  Sexton  by  the  Brook  sunk  down, 
And  stiffening  like  the  cold  and  icy  night. 

Next  day  they  traced  the  hardy  Sexton's  steps, 
And  found  that  but  one  narrow  arch  across 
The  meadow  Brook  the  spanning  ice  had  thrown, 
As  if,  in  sport,  to  try  its  secret  powers  ; 
And  there  the  Sexton  crossed— that  little  arch 
Left  him  alive  to  guide  the  funeral  train 
82 


THE   CONCOKD   SEXTON'S  STORY 

That  from  that  friendly  house  came  forth  in  woe. 
It  taught  this  lesson— that  in  common  hours 
There  hides  deep  meaning  and  a  sudden  fear ; 
Nor  need  we  track  the  deserts  of  the  Pole 
To  meet  the  sight  of  Death  and  Life's  dark  night. 


83 


POEMS  OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

TOYS  for  the  angry  lightning  in  its  play— 
Summits  and  peaks  and  crests  untrod  and 

steep ! 
Ye  precipices  where  the  eyes  delay, 

Sheer  gulfs  that  madly  plunge  to  valleys  deep, 
Overhung  valleys,  curtained  by  dark  forms, 
Ye  !  nourished  by  the  energetic  storms— 

I  seek  you,  lost  in  spellbound,  shuddering  sleep  ! 

Within  your  rifts  hang  gem -like,  crystal  stars  ; 
Eyeless  by  day,  they  glitter  through  the  nights  ; 

Full-zoned  Venus  and  red-visaged  Mars, 
And  that  serenest  Jupiter's  grand  lights, 

Peer  o'er  your  terrible  eminences  near, 

But  throned  too  high  to  stoop  with  mortal  fear- 
Dreading  you  not,  ye  ocean-stemming  heights  ! 

Your  awful  forms  pale  wandering  mists  surround  ; 

Dim  clouds  enfold  you  in  funereal  haze  ; 
In  the  white-frosted  winters  ye  abound, 

And  your  vast  fissures  with  the  frost-work  glaze, 
Slippery  and  careless  of  ascending  feet, 
Holding  out  violent  death  $  not  thus  may  meet 

The  Olympians,  mortals  with  unshrinking  gaze. 
84 


THE   MOUNTAINS 

The  fierce  Bald  Eagle  builds  amid  your  caves, 
Shrieks  fearless  in  your  lonely  places,  where 

Only  his  brothers  of  the  wind  make  waves, 
Sweeping  with  lazy  pinions  the  swift  air  ; 

Far,  far  below,  the  stealthy  wolf  retreats, 

The  fox  his  various  victims  crafty  greets  ; 

Breeze -knighted  birds  alone  make  you  their  lair. 

Sometimes  in  the  green  valley  peasants  stand, 
Shading  their  glance  at,  midday  as  they  pass, 

And  wonder  at  such  beacons  in  the  land— 
Bending  again  their  eyes  upon  the  grass. 

Ye  heaven-high  mountains  !  deign  to  stand  alone. 

Only  the  airy  amphitheatre  own— 

Only  the  shapely  clouds,  the  snows'  drear  mass  ! 

What  are  ye,  grand,  unuttered  words  of  Power  f 
Why  stand  you  thus,  balancing  only  earth  ? 

Shall  not  an  echo  wake,  an  untold  hour 

Stir  in  your  cavernous  breasts  a  giant  birth  ? 

Shall  ye  not  answer  to  the  roar  of  seas, 

Send  back  your  greetings  to  the  running  breeze  ? 
Mountains,  I  hear  you  in  your  mighty  mirth  ! 


85 


POEMS  OF  SIXTY-FIVE   YEARS 


HYMN  OF  THE  EARTH 

MY  highway  is  unfeatured  Air, 
My  consorts  are  the  sleepless  Stars, 
And  men  my  giant  arms  upbear, 

My  arms  unstained  and  free  from  scars. 
I  rest  forever  on  my  way, 

Kolling  around  the  happy  Sun  ; 
My  children  love  the  sunny  day, 
But  noon  and  night  to  me  are  one. 

My  heart  has  pulses  like  their  own ; 

I  am  their  Mother,  and  my  veins, 
Though  built  of  the  enduring  stone, 
Thrill,  as  do  theirs,  with  godlike  pains. 
The  Forests  and  the  Mountains  high, 

The  foaming  Ocean,  and  the  Springs, 
The  Plains— O  pleasant  Company  ! 

My  voice  through  all  your  anthem  rings. 

Ye  are  so  cheerful  in  your  minds, 

Content  to  smile,  content  to  share— 
My  being  in  your  chorus  finds 

The  echo  of  the  spheral  air. 
No  leaf  may  fall,  no  pebble  roll, 

No  drop  of  water  lose  the  road  5 
The  issues  of  the  general  Soul 

Are  mirrored  in  its  round  abode. 
86 


TO   THE   POETS 

who  sing  the  deeds  of  men 
A    From  the  earth  upraise  their  fame— 
Monuments  in  marble  pen, 

Keeping  ever  sweet  their  name  ; 
Tell  me,  Poets,  do  I  hear 
What  you  singj  with  pious  ear  ? 

They  who  sing  the  maiden's  kiss 
And  the  silver  sage's  thought, 
Loveliness  of  inward  bliss 
Or  a  graver  learning  taught, 
Tell  me,  are  your  skies  and  streams 
Keal,  or  the  shape  of  dreams  ? 

Many  rainy  days  must  go, 

Many  clouds  the  sun  obscure ; 
But  your  verses  clearer  show, 

And  your  lovely  thoughts  more  pure  j 
Mortals  are  we,  but  you  are 
Burning  keenly  like  a  star. 


87 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 


THE  WOODMAN 

This  poem  is  made  up  from  three  long  ones,  written  at  his  Ponkatasset 
cottage,  but  recalling  the  poet's  own  experience  as  a  woodman,  while  he 
lived  in  the  village  and  spent  days  chopping  in  Britton's  woods,  toward 
Lincoln. 

DEEP  in  the  forest  stands  he  there  j 
His  gleaming  axe  cuts  crashing  through 
(While  Winter  whistles  in  the  air) 
The  oak's  tough  trunk  and  flexile  bough. 


Above  the  wood  the  ravens  call ; 

Their  dusky  murmurs  fill  the  space. 
Small  snowbirds  toss  above  the  wall, 

And  flickering  shadows  span  the  place. 


Naught  but  the  drifting  cloud  o'erhead, 
Naught  but  the  stately  pines  off  there  j 

A  glaze  o'er  all  the  picture  's  spread— 
A  medium  that  far  suns  prepare. 


In  distant  groves  the  foxhound  bays, 
Where  faintly  strokes  of  axes  beat  j 

The  thin  snow  drives  across  the  ways, 
Untrampled  by  the  Woodman's  feet. 

88 


THE  WOODMAN 

"Within  each  tree  the  circles  are 

That  years  have  drawn  with  patient  art ; 

Against  its  life  he  maketh  war 
And  stills  the  beating  of  its  heart. 

The  rough  pitch-pine,  with  scaly  stem, 
Crashes  with  thunder  to  the  ground ; 

Its  rich  red  mail  is  naught  to  him— 
Within  the  pile  its  worth  is  found. 

The  tough  white  oak  commands  his  eye, 
Which  sees  it  in  the  sawmill's  power ; 

Its  leaves,  fern- colored,  rustling  fly— 
Its  winding  limbs  have  had  their  hour. 

He  must  beware  the  dulling  stone 

Where  drifts  the  snow,  nor  swerve  his  hand 
A  hair  shall  make  his  axe  atone 

For  his  mad  carnage  in  the  land. 

When  handsome  noon  divides  the  day, 
Behind  the  pile  he  sits  content ; 

He  needs  no  fire  :  the  sun's  kind  ray 
Tempers  the  stinging  element. 

He  opes  the  pail  stored  with  corn-bread, 

And  frosty  cake  of  homely  art, 
And  apples  that  last  Autumn  shed, 

With  russet  leaves,  from  his  good  heart. 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE   YEARS 

Fearless  the  snow-white  bunting  came 
To  peck  the  crumbs  that  near  him  fell ; 

No  need  to  give  that  bird  a  name, 
He  knew  its  pouting  breast  so  well. 

His  brother  woodmen  tramp  the  road 
Silent  and  staring,  striding  by  ; 

For  onward  is  their  near  abode, 
Where,  with  the  noon,  they  hungry  hie. 

When  half  the  afternoon  is  o'er 

He  builds  his  cord  ;  a  sharpened  stake 

At  each  end  driven  through  his  floor 
Secures  the  structures  he  must  make. 

Upon  that  floor  a  leafy  bed 

Conceals  where  grass  or  green  moss  grows 
The  rugged  trees  their  branches  spread, 

And  lattice-in  his  sky  that  glows. 

As  with  a  flood  of  amber  light 

Day's  candle  sinks  below  the  west ; 

The  woods  around  him  smile  "Good  night" 
'T  is  time  for  home— 't  is  time  for  rest. 

He  leaves  the  wood  when  twilight  burns 

Dim  on  his  solitary  way  ; 
Then  into  farmers'  lanes  he  turns, 

Or  on  the  highroad  whistles  gay, 
90 


THE  WOODMAN 

Where  broad-shod  sleds  have  creased  the  snow 
And  robbed  the  Winter  of  its  tint ; 

There  rise  the  gray  barns,  and  the  low 
Rain-painted  house  begins  to  glint. 

He  drops  his  axe,  the  kitchen  seeks, 

Where  from  his  hearth  steams  forth  the  tea ; 

And  pinches  his  fat  baby's  cheeks, 
And  tells  his  wife  of  you  and  me. 

His  wife  has  talked  with  neighbor  Sue, 

And  little  Patty's  cold  is  worse  ; 
The  pump  is  frozen  ;— thus  what 's  new 

And  what  is  old  they  each  rehearse. 

The  bold  North  Wind  his  cannon  fires, 
Sweeping  the  pines  ;  the  smoke  flies  fast ; 

They  shake,— the  pointed,  twinkling  spires,— 
While  o'er  the  field  ploughs  the  cold  blast. 


91 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEAES 


THE   POET 

EVEN"  in  the  winter's  depth  the  Pine-tree  stands 
'   With  a  perpetual  summer  in  its  leaves  ; 
So  stands  the  Poet,  with  his  open  hands— 
Nor  care  nor  sorrow  him  of  life  bereaves. 

Though  others  pine  for  piles  of  glittering  gold, 
A  cloudless  sunset  furnishes  him  enough  ; 

His  garments  never  can  grow  thin  or  old ; 

His  way  is  always  smooth,  though  seeming  rough. 

For  though  his  sorrows  fall  like  icy  rain, 

Straightway  the  clouds  do  open  where  he  goes, 

And  e'en  his  tears  become  a  precious  gain— 
'T  is  thus  the  hearts  of  mortals  that  he  knows. 

The  figures  of  his  landscape  may  appear 
Sordid  or  poor ;  their  colors  he  can  paint  j 

And,  listening  to  the  hooting,  he  can  hear 
Such  harmonies  as  never  sung  the  Saint. 

'T  is  in  his  heart  where  dwells  his  pure  desire, 
Let  other  outward  lot  be  dark  or  fair ; 

In  coldest  weather  there  is  inward  fire— 
In  fogs  he  breathes  a  clear,  celestial  air. 
92 


THE   POET 

Some  shady  wood  in  summer  is  his  room  ; 

Behind  a  rock  in  winter  he  can  sit ; 
The  wind  shall  sweep  his  chamber,  and  his  loom 

The  birds  and  insects  weave  content  at  it. 

Above  his  head  the  broad  sky's  beauties  are  ; 

Beneath,  the  ancient  carpet  of  the  earth : 
A  glance  at  that  unveileth  every  star  ; 

The  other,  joyfully  it  feels  his  birth. 

So  sacred  is  his  calling  that  no  thing 
Of  disrepute  can  follow  in  his  path ; 

His  destiny  's  too  high  for  sorrowing  5 

The  mildness  of  his  lot  is  kept  from  wrath. 

So  let  him  stand,  resigned  to  his  estate ; 

Kings  cannot  compass  it,  nor  nobles  have  : 
They  are  the  children  of  some  handsome  fate, 

He  of  himself  is  beautiful  and  brave. 


93 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEAES 


EEPENTANCE 

A  CLOUD  upon  the  day  is  lying, 
JL\-   A  cloud  of  care,  a  cloud  of  sorrow, 
That  will  not  speed  away  for  sighing, 

That  will  not  lift  upon  the  morrow  ; 
And  yet  it  is  not  gloom  I  carry 

To  shade  a  world  else  framed  in  lightness  ; 
It  is  not  Sorrow  that  doth  tarry 

To  veil  the  joyous  sky  of  brightness. 

Then  tell  me  what  it  is,  thou  Nature, 

That  of  all  earth  art  queen  supremest ! 
Give  to  my  grief  distinctest  feature, 

Thou  who  art  ever  to  me  nearest ! 
Because  my  lot  has  no  distinction, 

And  unregarded  I  am  standing, 
A  pilgrim  wan,  without  dominion, 

A  shipwrecked  mariner  just  landing. 

Eesolve  for  me,  ye  prudent  sages, 
Why  I  am  tasked  without  a  reason ; 

Or  penetrate  the  lapse  of  ages, 

And  show  where  is  my  summer  season. 
94 


EEPENTANCE 

For  let  the  sky  be  blue  above  me, 
Or  softest  breezes  lift  the  forest, 

I  still,  uncertain,  wander  to  thee— 
Thou  who  the  lot  of  man  deplorest. 

I  will  not  strive  for  Fortune's  gilding, 
But  still  the  disappointment  follow  ; 

Seek  steadily  the  pasture's  wilding, 
Nor  grasp  a  satisfaction  hollow. 


95 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 


THE   LONELY   KOAD 

This  is  the  "old  Carlisle  Road,"  leading  through  the  "Estabrook  coun 
try,"  celebrated  by  Thoreau,  and  where  his  Canada  lynx  was  killed. 
When  Channing  lived  at  Hillside,  as  he  called  his  Ponkatasset  house,  to 
this  wild  region  was  an  easy  stroll  across  pastures  and  a  brook.  This 
particular  stroll  was  taken  in  the  winter  of  1845^6,  in  company  with 
William  Tappan,  husband  of  his  early  friend  Caroline  Sturgis. 

NO  track  had  worn  the  lone,  deserted  road, 
Save  where  the  fox  had  leaped  from  wall  to 

wall ; 

There  were  the  swelling,  glittering  piles  of  snow, 
Up  even  with  the  walls ;  and,  save  the  crow 
Who  lately  had  been  pecking  barberries, 
No  other  sign  of  life  beyond  ourselves. 
We  strayed  along ;  beneath  our  feet  the  lane 
Creaked  at  each  pace,  and  soon  we  stood  content 
Where  the  old  cellar  of  a  house  had  been, 
Out  of  which  now  a  fruit-tree  wags  its  top. 


Some  scraggy  orchards  hem  the  landscape  round— 
A  forest  of  sad  apple-trees  unpruned, 
And  then  a  newer  orchard— pet  of  him 
Who  in  his  dotage  kept  this  lonely  place. 
In  this  wild  scene,  this  shut-in  orchard  dell, 
Men  like  ourselves  once  dwelt  by  roaring  fires— 
Loved  this  still  spot,  nor  had  a  further  wish. 

96 


THE   LONELY   ROAD 

A  little  wall,  half  falling,  bounds  a  square 
Where  choicer  fruit-trees  showed  the  garden's 

pride, 

Now  crimsoned  by  the  sumach,  whose  red  cones 
Displace  the  colors  of  the  cultured  growth. 

I  know  not  how  it  is  that  in  these  scenes 
There  is  a  desolation  so  complete  ; 
It  tarries  with  me  after  I  have  passed, 
And  the  dense  growth  of  woodland,  or  a  sight 
Of  distant  cottages,  or  landscapes  wide, 
Cannot  obscure  the  dreary,  cheerless  thought. 
I  people  the  void  scene  with  Fancy's  eye ; 
Her  children  do  not  live  too  long  for  me  ; 
They  vibrate  in  the  house  whose  walls  I  rear, 
(The  mansion  as  themselves),  the  fugitives 
Of  my  intent,  in  this  soft  winter  day. 

Nor  will  I  scatter  these  faint  images, 
Idle  as  shadows  that  the  tall  reeds  cast 
Over  the  silent  ice,  beneath  the  moon  j 
For  in  these  lonely  haunts  where  Fancy  dwells, 
And,  evermore  creating,  weaves  a  veil 
In  which  all  this  that  we  call  life  abides, 
There  must  be  deep  retirement  from  the  day ; 
And  in  these  shadowy  vistas  we  shall  meet 
Sometime  the  very  phantom  of  ourselves. 
97 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

A  long  farewell,  thou  dim  and  silent  spot ! 
Where  serious  Winter  sleeps,  or  the  soft  hour 
Of  some  half-dreamy  Autumn  afternoon  j 
And  may  no  idle  feet  tread  thy  domain, 
But  only  men  to  contemplation  vowed— 
Still,  as  ourselves,  creators  of  the  Past. 


98 


THE   BARKEN   MOORS 

This  tract  also  is  a  part  of  the  Estabropk  region,  and  even  nearer 
to  Hillside  than  the  road  just  pictured. 

ON  your  bare  rocks,  O  barren  Moors  ! 
On  your  bare  rocks  I  love  to  lie  ; 
They  stand  like  crags  upon  the  shores. 

Or  clouds  upon  a  placid  sky. 
Across  these  spaces  desolate 

The  fox  pursues  his  lonely  way ; 
These  solitudes  can  fairly  sate 
The  passage  of  my  loneliest  day. 

Like  desert  islands  far  at  sea, 

Where  not  a  ship  can  ever  land, 
These  dim  uncertainties  to  me 

For  something  veritable  stand  : 
A  serious  place,  distinct  from  all 

Which  busy  life  delights  to  feel ; 
I  stand  in  this  deserted  hall, 

And  here  the  wounds  of  Time  conceal. 

No  friend's  cold  eye,  or  sad  delay, 
Shall  vex  me  now,  where  not  a  sound 

Falls  on  the  ear,  and  every  day 
Is  soft  as  silence  most  profound. 
99 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

No  more  upon  these  distant  wolds 
The  agitating  world  can  come  ; 

A  single  pensive  thought  upholds 
The  arches  of  this  dreamy  home. 

Within  the  sky  above,  one  thought 
Replies  to  you,  O  barren  Moors  ! 

Between  I  stand— a  creature  taught 
To  stand  between  two  silent  floors. 


100 


FIELD-BIRDS'   NESTS 

TJEYOND  the  speeding  brook  I  went, 
-L)   Beyond  the  fields  my  course  I  bent, 
Where  on  the  height  an  oak-grove  stands, 
And  hemlocks  thick,  like  iron  bands. 
Then  by  the  marsh  and  by  the  Pond, 
Though  I  had  wandered  oft  beyond, 
Never  before  saw  I  those  eight, 
Yes,  eight  birds7  nests,  now  desolate. 

Each  nest  was  filled  with  snow  and  leaves- 
Such  nest  as  some  small  songster  weaves  ; 
Yet  pleasant  was  their  strange  array, 
Those  little  homes  of  yesterday ; 
So  frail  their  building  that  the  wind 
To  airy  journeys  had  consigned, 
Had  not  each  architect  displayed 
The  quiet  cunning  of  his  trade. 

On  some  small  twig  each  house  was  laid, 
That  every  breath  from  heaven  swayed  ; 
The  nests  swing  easy  as  the  bush— 
In  vain  the  wind  on  these  may  push : 
101 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE   YEARS 

A  twig  's  the  rock  on  which  they  stand 
As  firm  as  acres  of  deep  land— 
With  grass  and  sticks  together  piled, 
Secure  as  stately  palace  tiled. 

Another  summer  comes  the  bird, 
And  sweetly  swelling  song  is  heard  j 
She  hops  into  her  little  home— 
Her  mate  as  merrily  doth  come. 

Ye  men  who  pass  a  wretched  life, 

Consumed  with  care,  consumed  with  strife, 

Whose  gloom  grows  deeper  day  by  day, 

The  audience  at  a  tiresome  play  ! 

Who  build  the  stately  palaces 

Where  only  endless  gilding  is, 

Who  riot  in  perpetual  show, 

In  dress  and  wine  and  costly  woe  ! 

Who  haunt  the  stony  city's  street, 
Surrounded  by  a  thousand  feet, 
With  weary  wrinkles  in  your  brows 
And  faltering  penance  in  your  vows  : 
Think  of  the  little  field-bird's  nest ! 
Can  you  not  purchase  such  a  rest? 
A  twig,  some  straws,  a  dreamy  moor— 
The  same  some  summers  going  o'er. 


102 


THE   ARCHED   STREAM 

IT  went  within  my  inmost  heart 
That  overhanging  arch  to  see  ! 
The  liquid  stream  became  a  part 

Of  my  internal  harmony. 
So  gladly  rushed  the  full  stream  through, 

Pleased  with  the  measure  of  its  flow, 
So  burst  its  gladness  on  the  view, 
It  made  a  song  of  mirth  below. 

Yet  gray  were  those  o'erarching  stones, 

And  sere  and  dry  the  fringing  grass  ; 
And  mournful  the  remembered  tones 

That  out  of  Autumn's  bosom  pass ; 
And  o'er  the  bridge  the  heavy  road, 

Where  creaks  the  wain  with  burdened  cheer  ; 
But  gayly,  from  this  low  abode, 

Leaped  out  the  merry  brook  so  clear. 

Then  Nature  said  :  "My  child,  to  thee 

From  this  gray  arch  shall  Beauty  flow  j 
Thou  art  a  pleasing  thing  to  me, 

And  freely  in  my  meadows  go  ! 
Thy  verse  shall  gush  as  freely  on  ; 

Some  Poet  yet  may  sit  thereby 
And  cheer  himself  within  the  sun 

My  life  has  kindled  in  thine  eye." 
103 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEAES 
POEMS   OF   THE   HEART 

I.    ODE   TO   EMEKSON 

IF  we  should  rake  the  bottom  of  the  sea 
For  its  best  treasures, 
And  heap  our  measures, — 
If  we  should  ride  upon  the  winds,  and  be 
Partakers  of  their  flight 
By  day  and  through  the  night,— 
Intent  upon  this  business,  to  find  gold, 
Yet  were  thy  story  perfectly  untold. 

Such  waves  of  wealth  are  rolled  up  in  thy  soul, 

Such  swelling  argosies 

Laden  with  Time's  supplies,— 
Such  pure,  delicious  wine  shines  in  the  bowl, 

We  could  drink  evermore 

Upon  the  glittering  shore  ; 
Drink  of  the  pearl -dissolved,  brilliant  cup— 
Be  madly  drunk  and  drown  our  thirsting  up  ! 

This  vessel,  richly  chased  about  the  brim 

With  golden  emblems,  is 

The  utmost  art  of  bliss  ; 
With  figures  of  the  azure  Gods,  who  swim 

In  the  enchanted  Sea 

Contrived  for  Deity, 
104 


POEMS   OF   THE  HEAKT 

Floating  in  rounded  shells  of  purple  hue  j 
The  sculptor  died  in  carving  this  so  true. 

Some  dry,  uprooted  saplings  we  have  seen 

Pretend  to  even 

Thy  grove  of  Heaven— 
A  sacred  forest,  where  the  foliage  green 

Breathes  music  of  mild  lutes, 

Or  silver- coated  flutes, 
On  the  concealing  winds— that  can  convey 
Never  their  tone  to  the  rude  ear  of  Day. 

Some  weary-footed  mortals  we  have  found 

Adventuring  after  thee ; 

They,  rooted,  as  a  tree 
Pursues  the  swift  breeze  o'er  a  rocky  ground— 

Thy  grand,  imperial  flight 

Swept  thee  as  far  from  sight 
As  sweeps  the  movement  of  a  southern  blast 
Across  the  heated  Gulf,  and  bends  the  mast. 

The  circles  of  thy  thought  shine  vast  as  stars ; 
No  glass  shall  round  them, 
No  plummet  sound  them  ; 
They  hem  the  observer  like  bright,  steel-wrought 

bars; 

Yet  limpid  as  the  sun, 
Or  as  bright  waters  run 
105 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE   YEAKS 

From  coldest  fountain  of  the  Alpine  springs, 
Or  diamonds  richly  set  in  royal  rings. 

The  piercing  of  thy  soul  scorches  our  thought, 

As  great  fires  burning, 

Or  sunlight  turning 
Into  a  focus  :  in  thy  meshes  caught, 

Our  palpitating  minds 

Show  stupid,  as  coarse  hinds' ; 
So  strong  and  composite  through  all  thy  powers 
The  Intellect  divine  serenely  towers. 

This  heavy  castle's  gates  no  man  can  ope, 

Unless  the  Lord  doth  will 

To  prove  his  skill, 
And  read  the  fates  hid  in  his  horoscope  ; 

No  man  may  enter  there 

But  first  shall  kneel  in  prayer 
And  orisons  to  superior  Gods  shall  say— 
Powers  of  old  time,  unveiled  in  this  our  day. 

The  smart  and  pathos  of  our  suffering  race 

Bears  thee  no  harm  ; 

Thy  muscular  arm 
The  daily  ills  of  living  doth  efface  ; 

The  sources  of  that  spring 

From  whence  thy  instincts  wing 
Are  sounded  not  by  lines  of  sordid  Day  ; 
Enclosed  with  inlaid  wall 's  thy  virtue's  way. 
106 


POEMS  OF  THE  HEART 

In  city's  street  how  often  shall  we  hear, 
"It  is  a  period 
Deprived  of  every  God— 

A  time  of  indecision,  and  Doom  7s  near." 
While  foolish  altercation 
Threatens  to  break  our  nation ; 

All  men  turned  talkers,  and  much  good  forgot- 

With  scores  of  curious  troubles  we  know  not. 


We  never  heard  thee  babble  in  this  wise, 

Thou  age-creator, 

And  clear  debater 
Of  that  which  this  good  Present  underlies  j 

Thy  course  is  better  kept 

Than  where  the  dreamers  slept— 
Thy  sure  meridian  's  taken  by  the  sun ; 
Thy  compass  points  as  true  as  waters  run. 


In  vain  for  us  to  say  what  thou  hast  been 

To  our  occasion— 

This  flickering  nation, 
This  stock  of  people  from  an  English  kin  ; 

And  he  who  led  the  van,— 

The  frozen  Puritan,— 

We  thank  thee  for  thy  patience  with  his  faith, 
That  chill,  delusive  poison,  mixed  for  death. 
107 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

"Within  thy  book  the  world  is  plainly  set 

Before  our  vision ; 

Thou  keen  Physician ! 
We  find  there  wisely  writ  what  we  have  met 

Along  our  dusty  path, 

Or  o'er  the  aftermath, 

Where  natures  once  world-daring  held  the  scythe, 
Nor  paid  to  superstition  a  mean  tithe. 


We  need  not  search  for  men  in  Sidney's  times, 

Nor  Kaleigh's  fashion 

And  Herbert's  passion ; 
For  us  these  are  but  dry,  preserved  limes. 

There  is  ripe  fruit  to-day 

Hangs  yellow  in  display 
Upon  the  waving  guerdon  of  the  bough  : 
The  graceful  Gentleman  lives  for  us  now. 


Neither  must  thou  turn  back  to  Angelo, 

Who  Eome  commanded, 

And,  single-handed, 
Was  Architect,  Poet,  and  bold  Sculptor  too  ; 

Behold  a  better  thing, 

When  the  pure  mind  can  sing, 
When  true  Philosophy  is  linked  with  verse, 
And  moral  laws  in  rhyme  themselves  rehearse  ! 
108 


POEMS   OF  THE  HEART 

Great  Persons  are  the  epochs  of  the  race  ; 

Then  royal  Nature 

Takes  form  and  feature, 
And  careless  handles  the  surrounding  space  ; 

An  Age  is  vain  and  thin, 

A  pageant  of  gay  sin, 
Without  heroic  response  from  the  soul 
Through  which  the  tides  diviner  amply  roll. 

The  pins  of  Custom  have  not  pierced  through  thee  ; 

A  perfect  charmer 

'S  thy  shining  armor ; 
Even  the  hornets  of  Divinity 

Allow  thee  a  brief  space  ; 

And  thy  thought  hath  a  place 
Along  the  Scholar's  well-selected  shelves, 
Where  the  gray  Sage  of  various  wisdom  delves. 

So  moderate  in  thy  lessons,  and  so  wise, 

To  foes  so  courteous, 

To  friends  so  duteous, 
And  hospitable  in  the  neighbors'  eyes— 

Thy  thoughts  have  fed  the  lamp 

In  Learning's  polished  camp  ; 
And  who  suspects  thee  of  this  well-earned  fame1? 
Or  meditates  on  thy  renowned  name?  1 

1  Written  in  1846  or  earlier,  this  question  could  be  asked, 
but  now  is  superfluous. 

109 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

When  thou  dost  pass  below  thy  forest  shade, 

The  branches  drooping 

Enfold  thee,  stooping 
Above  thy  figure,  and  form  thus  a  glade ; 

The  flowers  admire  thee  pass ; 

In  much  content  the  grass 
Awaits  the  pressure  of  thy  firm-set  feet ; 
The  bird  for  thee  sends  out  his  greeting  sweet. 


Upon  the  River  thou  dost  float  at  peace, 

Or  on  the  Ocean 

Feelest  its  motion ; 
Of  every  natural  form  thou  hast  the  lease— 

Because  thy  way  lies  there 

Where  it  is  good  or  fair  : 

Thou  hast  perception,  learning,  and  much  art, 
Propped  by  the  columns  of  a  stately  heart. 


From  deepest  mysteries  thy  goblet  fills  j 

The  wines  do  murmur 

That  Nature  warmed  her, 
When  she,  from  must,  was  pressing  out  the  hills, 

And  plains  that  near  us  lie, 

The  foldings  of  the  sky— 
Whate'er  within  the  horizon's  range  there  is, 
From  Hades'  caldron  to  the  blue  God's  bliss. 
110 


POEMS   OF   THE   HEART 

"We  may  no  more— so  we  might  sing  fore'er, 

Thy  thought  recalling ; 

Thus  waters  falling 
Over  great  cataracts  from  their  lakes  do  bear 

A  power  that  is  divine, 

And  bends  their  stately  line. 
All  but  thy  Beauty  these  cold  verses  have— 
All  but  thy  Music,  organ-mellowed  nave  ! 


II.      HAWTHORNE  IN  THE  OLD  MANSE 

THERE  in  the  old  gray  house,  whose  end  we  see 
Half  peeping  through  the  golden  willow's  veil, 
Whose  graceful  twigs  make  foliage  through  the 

year, 

My  Hawthorne  dwelt— a  scholar  of  rare  worth. 
New  England's  Chaucer,  Hawthorne  fitly  lives, 
The  gentlest  man  that  kindly  Nature  drew. 


His  tall,  compacted  figure,  ably  strung 
To  urge  the  Indian  chase  or  guide  the  way— 
Softly  reclining  'neath  the  aged  elm, 
Like  some  still  rock  looked  out  upon  the  scene, 
As  much  a  part  of  Nature  as  itself. 
Ill 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  TEAKS 

The  passing  Fisher  saw  this  idle  man 
Thus  lying  solitary  'neath  the  elm ; 
And  as  he  plied  with  lusty  arm  his  oar, 
Shooting  upon  the  tranquil  glass  below 
The  old  Red  Bridge,— and  farther  on  the  stream 
To  those  still  coves  where  the  great  prizes  swim,  — 
Asked  of  himself  this  question— why  that  man 
Thus  idly  on  the  bank  o'erlooked  the  stream  ? 
Then  by  the  devious  light,  at  twilight's  close, 
He  read  the  Twice-told  Tales— nor  dreamt  the 

mind 

Thus  idly  musing  by  the  river's  side 
Had  gathered  and  stored  up  from  Nature's  fields 
This  golden  grain. 

From  out  the  sunny  brake, 
Or  where  the  Great  Fields  glimmer  in  the  sun, 
Such  mystic  influence  came  to  Hawthorne's  soul, 
That  from  the  air  and  from  the  liquid  day 
He  drank  the  subtle  image  of  deep  life. 
And  when  the  grand  and  cumbrous  winter  rose, 
Sealing  the  face  of  Nature  as  with  stone, 
He  sat  within  the  Manse,  and  filled  the  place 
With  all  the  wealth  of  summer,  like  a  sun. 
Still  were  these  plains  more  sacred  in  my  eyes 
That  furnished  treasure  for  his  kingly  purse. 


112 


POEMS  OF   THE  HEART 

III.      COUNT  JULIAN 

Another  Sketch  of  Hawthorne 

As  in  some  stately  grove  of  singing  pines 
One  tree,  more  marked  than  all,  decisive  rears 
Its  grand,  aspiring  figure  to  the  sky, 
Eemote  from  those  beneath,  and  o'er  whose  top 
The  first  faint  light  of  dawn  familiar  plays, 
So  in  Count  Julian's  face  there  was  the  soul 
Of  something  deeper  than  the  general  heart— 
Some  memory  more  near  to  other  worlds, 
Time's  recollection,  and  the  storied  Past. 

His  pure,  slight  form  had  a  true  Grecian  charm, 
Soft  as  the  willow  o'er  the  river  swaying, 
Yet  sinewy,  and  capable  of  action— 
Such  grace  as  in  Apollo's  figure  lay 
When  he  was  moving  the  still  world  with  light. 
About  his  forehead  clustered  rich  black  curls, 
Medusa-like ;  they  charmed  the  student's  eye. 
Those  soft,  still  hazel  orbs  Count  Julian  had 
Looked  dream-like  forth  on  the  familiar  day- 
Yet  eloquent,  and  full  of  luminous  force 
Sweetly  humane, — that  had  no  harshness  known,  — 
Unbroken  eyes,  where  love  forever  dwelt. 

This  art  of  Nature  which  surrounded  him, 
This  made  Count  Julian  what  he  was  to  me- 
113 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE   YEAKS 

Which  neither  time  nor  place  nor  poet's  pen 
Nor  sculptor's  chisel  e'er  can  mould  again. 

IV.      ALCOTT 

LIGHT  from  a  better  land  ! 
Fire  from  a  burning  brand  ! 
Though  in  this  cold,  sepulchral  clime, 
Chained  to  an  unambitious  time, 

Thou  slowly  moulderest ; 
Yet  cheer  that  great  and  lowly  heart, 
Prophetic  eye  and  sovereign  part ! 
And  be  thy  fortune  greatly  blest, 
And  by  some  greater  gods  confest, 

With  a  sublimer  rest ! 

Strike  on,  nor  still  thy  golden  lyre, 
That  sparkles  with  Olympian  fire  ! 
And  be  thy  word  the  soul's  desire 

Of  this  unthinking  land  ! 
Nor  shall  thy  voyage  of  glory  fail ; 
Its  sea  thou  sweepest— set  thy  sail ! 
Though  fiercely  rave  the  heaviest  gale, 

It  shall  not  swerve  thy  hand. 

Born  for  a  fate  whose  secret  none 

Hath  looked  upon  beneath  Earth's  sun- 

Child  of  the  High,  the  Only  One  ! 

Thy  glories  sleep  secure  ! 

114 


POEMS   OF   THE   HEART 

On  Heaven's  coast  thy  mounting  wave 
Shall  dash  beyond  the  unknown  grave, 
And  cast  its  spray  to  warn  and  save 
Some  other  barks  that  moor. 

v.    THOREAU  (AT  WALDEN) 

IT  is  not  far  beyond  the  village  church 
(After  we  pass  the  wood  that  skirts  the  road), 
A  Lake,  the  blue-eyed  Walden,  that  doth  smile 
Most  tenderly  upon  its  neighbor  pines  ; 
And  they,  as  if  to  recompense  this  love, 
In  double  beauty  spread  their  branches  forth. 
This  Lake  hath  tranquil  loveliness  and  breadth, 
And  of  late  years  hath  added  to  its  charms  ; 
For  One,  attracted  to  its  pleasant  edge, 
Has  built  him  there  a  little  Hermitage, 
Where  with  much  piety  he  passes  life. 

But  more  than  either  Lake  or  forest's  depths 
This  man  has  in  himself :  a  tranquil  man, 
With  sunny  sides,  where  well  the  fruit  is  ripe— 
Good  front  and  resolute  bearing  to  his  life, 
And  some  serener  virtues,  which  control 
This  rich  exterior  prudence  ;  virtues  high, 
That  in  the  principles  of  things  are  set, 
Great  by  their  nature,  and  consigned  to  him, 
Who  like  a  faithful  merchant  does  account 
To  God  for  what  he  spends,  and  in  what  way. 
115 


POEMS  OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

Thrice  happy  art  thou,  Walden  :  in  thyself 

(Such  purity  is  in  thy  limpid  springs)  ; 

In  those  green  shores  which  do  reflect  in  thee  ; 

And  in  this  man  who  dwells  upon  thine  edge— 

A  holy  man  within  a  Hermitage. 

May  all  good  showers  fall  gently  into  thee  ! 

May  thy  surrounding  forest  long  be  spared  ! 

And  may  this  Dweller  on  thy  tranquil  shores 

There  lead  a  life  of  deep  tranquillity ! 

Pure  as  thy  waters,  handsome  as  thy  shores, 

And  with  those  virtues  that  are  like  the  stars. 


VI.      ELIZABETH   HOAR 

BELIEVE  that  I,  a  humble  worshipper, 
Who  in  soiled  weeds  along  this  pathway  's 
going, 

To  one  of  nobler  kind  may  minister, 

His  lowly  hope  in  these  faint  words  bestowing 

O  Lady,  that  my  words  for  thee  were  more  ! 

But  I  have  not  the  right  to  richer  store. 

Thou  art  of  finer  mould— thy  griefs  are  proof; 

Only  those  nearest  to  the  sun  do  burn, 
While  we  sit  merry  underneath  the  roof, 

And  vainly  to  those  larger  empires  turn ; 
Had  I  been  heir  of  brightness,  as  art  thou, 
Then  might  a  sorrow  seal  my  rounded  brow. 
116 


POEMS   OF   THE  HEART 


VII.      TO  THOSE  ADDRESSED 

0  BAND  of  Friends !  ye  breathe  within  this 

space, 

And  the  rough  finish  of  a  humble  man 
By  your  kind  touches  rises  into  Art. 

1  cannot  lose  a  line  ye  bend  to  trace  ; 
Your  figures  bear  into  the  azure  deeps 
A  little  frail  contentment  of  my  own  ; 
And  in  your  eyes  I  read  how  sunshine  lends 
A  golden  color  to  the  dusty  weed, 

That  droops  its  tints  where  the  soiled  Pilgrims 
tread. 


VIII.      THE   ESTRANGED   FRIEND 

THE  day  has  passed— I  never  may  return ; 
Twelve  circling  years  have  run  since  first  I 

came 
And  kindled  the  pure  truth  of  Friendship's 

flame ; 

Alone  remain  these  ashes  in  the  urn. 
Vainly  for  light  the  taper  may  I  turn ; 

Thy  hand  is  closed,  as  for  these  years  the  same, 
And  of  the  substance  naught  is  but  the  name— 
No  more  a  hope,  no  more  a  ray  to  burn. 
117 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

But  once  more,  in  the  pauses  of  thy  joy. 

Remember  him  who  sought  thee  in  his  youth, 

And  with  the  old  reliance  of  the  boy 

Asked  for  thy  treasures  in  the  guise  of  Truth. 

The  air  is  thick  with  sighs,— the  shaded  sun 

Creeps  from  the  hillside,  and  the  day  is  done. 


IX.      UNFAITHFUL   FRIENDSHIP 

The  sonnet  just  given  was  written,  says  the  manuscript,  "in  the  road 
between  L.  and  S.,"  which  I  take  to  be  Lenox  and  Stockbridge.  The 
year  must  have  been  1845  or  1846.  This  less  poetic  expostulation  may 
explain  the  causes  of  the  separation,  which  was  only  on  the  poet's  side, 
I  fancy,  knowing  both. 

You  recollect  our  younger  years,  my  Friend, 
And  rambles  in  the  country ;  life  could  lend 
No  choicer  volumes  for  the  Student's  eye. 
You  must  remember  that  it  was  not  I 
Who  brought  conclusion  to  these  rambling 

moods— 

Our  joint  connection  with  the  streams  and  woods  : 
'T  was  ever  thou— thou  who  art  steeped  in 

thought, 

Subtle  and  dexterous,  wise— but  good  for  naught. 
I  mean  no  harm ;  thou  art  not  good  for  me— 
Thou  reasonest,  demandest ;  I  ask  thee. 

Thou  didst  not  know  that  Friendship  is  a  kiss— 
Not  thought,  philosophy,— some  Sage's  bliss,— 
118 


POEMS    OF   THE   HEART 

But  a  strange  fire  that  falleth  from  above ; 

The  gods  have  named  this  star-shower  Human  Love. 

No— thou  wert  blinded  ;  thou  saidst,  "Friend, 

forbear ! 

Do  not  come  nigh — my  heart  thou  canst  not  share." 
(My  heart,  alas  !    I  gave  that  all  away.) 
"I  do  not  love  thee  near  me  ;  bide  thy  day  ! 
Fashion  I  seek,  and  whirling  gayety, 
Not  thou,  sad  Poet !  what  art  thou  to  me  f 
More— I  have  married  an  angelic  wife, 
Who  wreathes  with  roses  my  enchanted  life  ; 
Thou  art  superfluous— come  not  thou  too  near  ! 
Let  us  be  distant  friends,  and  no  more  dear. 

"What  were  thy  eager  fancies,  running  o'er 
Half  of  the  world  ?     I  anchor  near  the  shore  : 
Thy  silly  jests  for  idlers'  ears  are  fit, 
And  only  silence  complements  thy  wit. 
I  love  thee  at  arm's-length ;  my  quarantine 
Declares  pacific  measures,  and  divine. 
I  would  it  were  not  so — poor,  helpless  thing, 
That  like  a  blue  jay  can  but  shriek  or  sing 
Those  lamentable  ditties  that  refuse 
To  call  themselves  productions  of  the  Muse  ! 
Nay  !  walk  not  with  me  in  the  curling  wood  ! 
I  stride  abroad  in  quest  of  solitude. 
I  love  my  friends  far  off ;  when  they  come  near, 
Too  warm  !  too  warm  the  crowded  atmosphere." 
119 


POEMS  OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 


X.      TO  ROSALIE 

This  name  in  the  first  manuscript  is  "Rosaline."    Channing  calls  this 
"  a  purely  imaginary  portraiture,"  but  this  may  be  doubted. 

GIRL  so  beautiful, 

So  sweet !  I  dare  not  love  ; 
Girl  so  dutiful 

That  my  heart  did  move 
With  pure  delight 
And  tranquil  worship  at  thy  sight ! 

I  might  love  when  passion  dances 

In  a  dark,  entrancing  eye, 
Answering  to  my  fond  glances— 

Answering  I  know  not  why  : 
But  that  modest,  simple  child, 
Figure  holy,  aspect  mild, 
With  no  thought  of  me  or  mine, 
The  angelic  Kosaline ! 
As  the  beauty  flowed  o'er  me, 
Noble  Maiden  !  born  with  thee, 
Only  could  I  wonder  long— 
For  thee  frame  this  feeble  song. 

Then  I  knelt  before  her  beauty, 
And  I  woke  from  idle  longing ; 

Made  it  my  peculiar  duty 

With  this  child,  to  Love  belonging, 
120 


POEMS   OF   THE  HEART 

Her  to  lead  in  wood  and  dell, 
Where  the  streams  conceal  their  spell 
In  the  sleeping  solitudes, 

Where  an  ancient  silence  nods 
In  the  old,  complacent  woods, 

Haunt  of  unpretending  Gods  : 
And  where'er  the  secret  bird 
With  such  melody  is  heard, 

As  a  dewy  rose-leaf  falling, 
Loosely  in  the  summer  wind, 

Or  the  twilight  fancies  calling 
Far  the  buried  sun  behind, 
When  on  high  a  vesper  bell, 

Softly  tolling  day's  declining, 
In  the  mountains  sounding  well, 
Answers  to  a  heart  repining ; 
Or  a  sigh  of  the  wind-harp's  tongue 
On  a  silken  zephyr  sung. 


Be  the  season  cool  or  warm, 
May  it  soothe  her  with  its  charm ! 
In  gay  blossoms  Spring  enfold  her, 
'Mid  rich  flowers  may  Summer  hold  her ! 
With  ripe  fruit  brown  Autumn  bless  her, 
With  brave  cheer  white  Winter  dress  her  ! 

And  more,  may  I 

Resist  the  force  of  ever  tie, 
121 


POEMS   OF    SIXTY-FIVE   YEARS 

And  on  this  spotless  errand  bent, 
With  a  duty  abstinent, 

Vow  to  her  the  steadfast  heart, 
Silent  tongue,  and  sleepless  thought, 

Vow  to  her  the  spoils  of  Art, 
And  the  gold  the  mind  has  brought 
From  her  rivers  in  the  Reason, 
To  regild  the  faded  season— 
Vow  them  all ! 
And  her  my  mistress  call, 
Whom  to  love  were  hopeless  folly— 
Maiden  mild,  and  pure  and  holy, 
Whom  to  love  was  not  for  me, 
But  to  worship  sacredly. 

XI.      TO   EDWARD   EMERSON  (THREE   YEARS   OLD) 

(1847) 

A  LITTLE  Boy, 

To  be  his  parents'  joy  ; 

A  tender  three-year-old, 

Shut  in  a  shapely  fold, 

Whose  trustful  eye 

Draws  a  great  circle  of  new  sky  ! 

That  eye  is  blue 
As  loved  Italia' s  heaven, 

Or  the  mid- ocean's  hue, 
Or  Mediterranean  even ; 
122 


POEMS   OF   THE   HEART 

Or  the  bright  petal  of  a  star-shaped  flower, 
Autumnal  Aster's  or  fringed  Gentian's  dower, 
Or  the  just  gods'  cerulean  hall. 
How  shone  this  eye  on  us  at  all? 
How  is  it  here, 
Smiling  blue  above  the  bier 
Of  the  dead  Autumn  flower, 
In  my  November  hour  I 


Child  of  the  good  Divinity  ! 

Thou  child  of  One 

Who  smiles  on  me  like  a  most  friendly  sun  ! 

How  gaze  our  wondering  eyes  at  thee, 

Thou  whom  the  God  has  anchored 

In  a  bare  plain,  from  the  clear  sea 

Of  his  creative  pleasure  ! 

Moored  thee,  to  measure 

The  fathoms  of  the  sense 

In  this  hard  present  tense  ! 

Child  of  the  azure  sky, 

Who  hast  outdone  it  in  thine  eye, 
That  trellised  window  in  unfathomed  blue  ! 
Child  of  the  Mid- world  sweet  and  true, 
Child  of  the  combing,  crystal  spheres 
Throned  above  this  salt  pool  of  tears  ! 

Child  of  Immortality, 
Why  hast  thou  come  to  cheat  the  Destiny  ? 
123 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE   YEAES 

By  the  sweet  mouth,  half  parted  in  a  smile, 
That  dimpled  never  in  some  Indian  isle, 
By  upright  figure  and  fat  cheek, 
And  by  thy  creamy  voice  so  meek, 
By  all  thou  art,— 
By  the  pat  beating  of  thy  crisscross 

heart,— 
How  couldst  thou  light  ont  his  plain,  homespun 

shore  ? 

And,  not  upon  thy  own  aerial  riding, 
Fall  down  to  Earth,  where  turbid  sadly  pour 
The  old,  perpetual  rivers  of  backsliding. 


Since  thou  art  here,  and  fast 

On  our  autumnal  ball— 
Renounce,  if  possible,  the  mighty  air-spanned 

Hall! 
Its  chalice  of  imperial  nectar, 

Vases  of  transparent  porphyry, 
Amethystine  rings  of  splendor, 
Bright  footstools  of  chalcedony— 

The  alabaster  bed, 
Where  in  the  plume  of  seraph  sunk  thy 

head, 

To  the  full-sounding  organ  of  the  Sphere, 
By  the  smooth,  hyaline  finger  of  thy  peer 

So  amorously  played ! 

Stay  with  us,  if  thou  'rt  not  too  much  afraid  ! 
124 


POEMS   OF   THE   HEART 

Lap  thyself  here  in  beds  of  roses, 

Bathe  thee  in  Spring's  cosmetic  time, 
Waken  old  Autumn  where  his  head  reposes, 

Or  kiss  the  cheek  of  Summer  in  her  prime  ! 
Turn  the  dark  Winter  night  to  day. 
Stay  with  us, 
Play  with  us ; 
Go  not,  go  not  away  ! 

Here  are  prickly  chestnuts 
That  tinkle  as  they  fall, 
And  oily  meat  of  walnuts, 

And  cones  of  the  pitch-pine  tall ; 
By  terraces  with  alders  sown 

Along  the  fleet  brook's  grassy  side, 
Thou  mayst  sail  thy  skiff  alone, 
Where  the  amber  waters  glide  ; 
Fix  a  blue  jay's  scream 

For  the  whistle  of  thy  car  ! 
Costliest  music  for  thy  dream 

Be  tap  of  the  hard-billed  woodpecker  ! 
Ambrosia  's  in  the  tip  of  the  Columbine, 
And  in  the  red  fox-grape  's  a  tartish  wine. 

Be  those  blue  eyes 

Our  only  atmosphere ! 
For  in  them  lies 

What  is  than  Earth,  than  distant  Heaven,  more 
dear. 

125 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 


XII.      A    PRAYER 

To  Thy  continual  Presence,  in  me  wrought, 
Vainly  might  I,  a  fallen  creature,  say 

Through  Thee,  Thou  essence  of  Creation's  thought, 
That  I  partake  the  blessedness  of  Day  ; 

That  on  my  verse  might  fall  Thy  healing  dew  ! 

And  all  its  faults  obscure,  its  charms  renew. 

I  praise  Thee— not  because  Thou  needest 

praise 
(What  were  my  thanks?     Thou  needest  not  my 

lays)- 

Yet  will  I  praise  Thee— for  Thou  art  the  fire 
That  sparkles  on  the  strings  of  my  dark  lyre. 

Sole  Majesty  !  around  us  softly  flowing, 
Unseen,  yet  in  the  common  sunset  glowing  ! 
Fate  of  the  Universe  !  the  Tide  of  things  ! 
Sacred  alike  to  all  beneath  Thy  wings. 

If  Passion's  trance  lay  on  my  writing  clear, 
Then  should  I  see  Thee,  evident  and  near  $ 
Passion— that  breath  of  Instinct,  and  the  key 
Of  Thy  dominions,  untold  Mystery  ! 

126 


POEMS   OF    THE   HEART 


XIII.      TO   MY   COMPANIONS 

YE  heavy-hearted  Mariners 

Who  sail  this  shore— 
Ye  patient !  ye  who  labor 

Sitting  at  the  sweeping  oar, 
And  see  afar  the  flashing  sea-gulls  play 
On  the  free  waters,  and  the  glad,  bright  Day 

Twine  with  his  hand  the  spray— 
From  out  your  dreariness, 
From  your  heart-weariness, 
I  speak  ;  for  I  am  yours, 
On  these  gray  shores. 

In  vain— I  know  not,  Mariners, 

What  cliffs  these  are 
That  high  uplift  their  smooth,  dark  fronts 

And  sadly  round  us  bar  ; 
I  do  imagine  that  the  free  clouds  play 
Above  those  eminent  heights ;  that  somewhere 

Day 

Rides  his  triumphant  way 
Over  our  stern  oblivion  ; 
And  hath  his  pure  dominion. 
But  see  no  path  thereout 
To  free  from  doubt. 


127 


POEMS  OF  MATURITY 
AND  AGE 


THE   POET'S   DEJECTION 

THEEE  are  no  tears  to  shed ;  the  heart  is  dry, 
And  the  thin  leaves  of  hope  fall  from  the 

bough, 

Rustling  and  sere— all  winter  in  the  tree. 
Some  smarting  pain,  some  swiftly  shooting  ill, 
Needless  alarm  or  interrupted  fear, 
Chances  and  changes,  and  the  soul's  despair, 
All  we  can  suffer— all  that  we  deplore 
Were  happier  far  than  these  unmoving  hours, 
When  I  sit  silent  on  the  sandy  shore, 
Silent,  uncomforted,  hapless,  and  lone. 
Why  are  ye  bright,  why  are  ye  sunny,  days, 
With  the  blue  sky  that  arches  over  all, 
And  the  sweet  wind  that  with  a  breath  of  love 
Touches  the  golden  hilltops  till  they  smile  ? 

I  murmur  from  my  soul  its  cherished  thoughts. 
All  I  have  known  or  suffered ;  and  I  ask 
The  friends  I  love  to  come  and  sit  with  me, 
And  call  to  memory  for  their  cheerful  smiles. 
They  cannot  answer  me  ;  no  visions  rise  ; 
And  in  such  ebbing  hours  life  passes  as 
A  faint  and  burdened  man,  whose  aching  feet 
Support  him  tottering  o'er  the  sandy  wastes 
In  the  unlidded  blaze  of  Afric's  eye. 
131 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

Oh,  little  feel  the  gay,  remorseless  crowd, 
Intent  on  pleasures,  of  the  poet's  care  ; 
The  path  he  treads  must  be  by  them  untrod ; 
His  destiny  a  veil,  his  heart— unsealed ; 
While  all  around  him  swims  dancing  in  joy, 
And  smiling  faces  and  soft  azure  skies, 
Tantalus-like  that  he  shall  never  touch, 
Look  in  across  the  dead  sea  of  his  life, 
Like  goblin  masks,  fleshless  and  cold  and  pale. 


Would  that  the  heart  might  break,  the  mind 

decease, 

Or  ever  these  dark  hours  that  do  not  move, 
Sullen  and  stagnant  as  the  marshy  pool 
Whose  side  the  rank  sedge  crowds,  while  the  green 

ooze 

Spreads  o'er  the  shallows  its  soft,  slimy  veil ! 
Will  the  prevented  waters  ne'er  o'erflow, 
Burst  down  their  muddy  dams,  and,  leaping  clear, 
Dance  through  the  valleys  like  a  song  of  joy? 
Is  there  imprisoned  winter  through  my  heart, 
Frozen  to  its  centre  like  an  icy  shroud  f 
Am  I  embraced  in  stone  or  filled  with  dust  ? 
Tell  me,  kind  destinies,  who  rule  our  days ! 
In  vain ;  ye  ne'er  reveal  it.     There  's  no  soul 
Within  us  that  applauds  these  sullen  hours. 


132 


THE   POET'S   DEJECTION 

Yet  let  me  suffer  with  a  patient  thought ; 

'T  is  but  another  turning  of  the  tide 

That  from  the  far-off  ocean  of  our  fate 

So  slowly  murmurs  through  its  rock-bound  cave. 

Ever  the  tide  returns  ;  but  now  at  ebb, 

When  the  white  sands  gleam  bare  and  nothing 

stirs 

Save  the  salt  seaweed  fringe  of  little  streams 
That  trickle  from  lone  pools  o'er  the  dented  sand. 
Cannot  I,  as  the  mariner,  recline, 
Waiting  the  longed-for  hour  when  with  a  stir 
Of  soft,  delicious  fragrance  from  the  deep, 
And  heavenly  alternations  in  the  kiss 
Of  the  sea-breeze,  elastic  as  young  hopes, 
The  swelling  waters  hasten,  and  his  bark 
At  last  floats  off,  rising  so  steadily, 
Her  sails  all  filling  with  that  sweet  surprise, 
Till  her  bright  keel  cuts  sharply  the  green  floor, 
And  tosses  off  the  billows  till  they  laugh. 


Yet  must  we  wait,  whose  voyage  knows  no  content, 

Whose  compass  turns  within  the  eternal  stars— 

A  voyage  beyond  illimitable  worlds  ; 

Yet  must  I  pause  upon  this  earthly  ebb, 

And  play  and  smile  at  care  and  soothe  the  pain, 

Until  the  raven  hair  of  misery  shines. 


133 


POEMS   OF    SIXTY-FIVE  YEAES 

Brave  be  thy  heart,  O  sailor  of  the  world  ! 
Erect  thy  vision,  strong  and  resolute. 
Let  disappointments  strike,  and  leaden  days 
Visit  thee  like  a  snowdrift  across  flowers  ; 
Be  calm  and  truthful,  and  outcheer  thy  pangs. 
And,  when  thou  sufferest,  learn  from  all  thy  woes, 
Those  faithful  teachers  who  shall  spell  thee  all 
Hope's  alphabet  and  Bible  lore.      Be  calm- 
Even  in  a  little  this  rude  voyage  is  done. 
Then  heave  the  time-stained  anchor,  trim  thy  sails, 
And  o'er  the  bosom  of  the  untrammelled  deep 
Ride  in  the  heavenly  boat  and  touch  new  stars. 


134 


MURILLO'S   MAGDALEN 

nEK  eyes  are  fixed  ;  they  seek  the  skies. 
Was  earth  so  low  ?    Was  life  so  vain  ? 
Was  Time  such  weary  sacrifice  ? 
This  hopeless  task,  this  eating  pain? 


Smooth,  smooth  the  tresses  of  thy  hair  ; 

Release  that  cold,  contracted  brow  ! 
I  have  not  lived  without  despair  ; 

Look  down  on  me— some  mercy  show  ! 


I  cannot  bear  those  silent  skies  ; 

The  weight  is  pressing  in  my  heart ; 
Life  is  eternal  sacrifice, 

The  livelong  hour,  the  selfish  smart. 


I  wake  to  tears,  in  tears  I  close 
The  weary  eyes  so  fixed  above  j 

I  cannot  see  the  skies  of  rose, 
My  heavy  tresses  will  not  move. 
135 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEAES 

Hope  cannot  heal  my  breaking  heart, 
Heaven  will  not  lift  my  dread  despair ; 

I  need  another  soul  to  part 

These  brows  of  steel  and  join  in  prayer. 

Sails  there  no  bark  on  life's  wild  sea 
That  bears  a  soul  whose  faith  has  set, 

Who  may  renew  my  light  in  me, 
And  both  shall  thus  the  past  forget? 


136 


SLEEPY   HOLLOW 

(1855) 

This  poem  was  written  at  Mr.  Emerson's  request,  for  sieging  at  the  conse 
cration  of  the  Concord  cemetery  where  his  ashes  now  repose.  But 
finding  it  could  not  easily  be  sung  by  the  village  choir,  Mr.  Emerson 
desired  me  to  write  an  ode  that  could  be  sung  —  which  was  done. —  F.  B.  S. 

NO  abbeys  gloom,  no  dark  cathedral  stoops, 
No  winding  torches  paint  the  midnight  air ; 
Here  the  green  pine  delights,  the  aspen  droops 
Along  the  modest  pathways— and  those  fair, 
Pale  asters  of  the  season  spread  their  plumes 
Around  this  field,  fit  garden  for  our  tombs. 

Here  shalt  thou  pause  to  hear  the  funeral  bell 
Slow  stealing  o'er  thy  heart  in  this  calm  place  ; 

Not  with  a  throb  of  pain,  a  feverish  knell, 
But  in  its  kind  and  supplicating  grace 

It  says  :  "Go,  Pilgrim,  on  thy  march  !  be  more 

Friend  to  the  friendless  than  thou  wast  before." 

Learn  from  the  loved  one's  rest,  serenity ; 

To-morrow  that  soft  bell  for  thee  shall  sound, 
And  thou  repose  beneath  the  whispering  tree, 

One  tribute  more  to  this  submissive  ground. 
Prison  thy  soul  from  malice— bar  out  pride— 
Nor  these  pale  flowers  nor  this  still  field  deride  ! 
137 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

Rather  to  those  ascents  of  Being  turn 

Where  a  ne'er-setting  sun  illumes  the  year 
Eternal ;  and  the  incessant  watch-fires  burn 

Of  unspent  holiness  and  goodness  clear ; 
Forget  man's  littleness— deserve  the  best- 
God's  mercy  in  thy  thought  and  life  confest. 


138 


THE  NEW    ENGLAND   FARM-HOUSE 

IN  CANTON,   MASSACHUSETTS 

METHINKS  I  see  the  hilltops  round  me  swell, 
And  meadow  vales  that  kiss  their  tawny 

brooks, 

And  fawn  the  glittering  sands  that  hug  the  grass, 
Old  valleys  shorn  by  farmers  numerous  years, 
Some  mossy  orchards  murmuring  with  perfume, 
And  our  red  farm-house.     What  a  wreck  that 

was  !— 

Its  rotten  shingles  peeling  'fore  the  winds 
When  roaring  March  fell  in  the  offshore  breeze  ; 
The  kitchen,  with  its  salt-box  full  of  eggs, 
And  Taylor's  Holy  Living  on  the  lid. 
Our  parlor  kept  its  buffet  rarely  oped— 
Much  did  I  wonder  at  yon  glassy  doors, 
And  stacks  of  crockery  sublimely  piled— 
Hills  of  blue  plates,  and  teapots  sere  with  age  ; 
And  spoons,  old  silver,  tiniest  of  that  breed. 
It  was  a  sacred  place,  and,  save  I  whisked 
Sometimes  a  raisin  or  a  seed-cake  thence, 
With  furtive  glance  I  scanned  the  curious  spot. 
The  curtains  at  the  windows  kept  all  dark ; 
Green  paper  was  the  compound ;  and  the  floor, 
139 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE   YEARS 

Well  scrubbed,  showed  its  vacuities,  content 
With  modest  subterfuge  of  mats  (the  work 
Of  some  brave  aunt,  industrious  as  a  fly), 
And  interwove  of  rags,  yet  such  to  me 
I  hardly  dared  intrude  on  them  my  shoe. 


140 


TKTJRO,   ON  CAPE  COD 

OFT  would  I  tread  that  far-off,  quiet  shore, 
And  sit  allayed  with  its  unnoticed  store. 
What  though  nor  fame  nor  hope  my  fancy  fired, 
Nor  aught  of  that  to  which  my  youth  aspired, 
Nor  woman's  beauty,  nor  her  friendly  cheer, 
That  nourish  life  like  some  soft  atmosphere  ? 
For  here  I  found  I  was  a  welcome  guest 
At  generous  Nature's  hospitable  feast. 
The  barren  moors  no  fences  girdled  high,— 
These  endless  beaches  planting  might  defy,— 
And  the  blue  sea  admitted  all  the  air— 
A  cordial  draught,  so  sparkling  and  so  rare. 

While  there  I  wandered,— far  and  wide  between, 
Proud  of  my  salt  expanse  and  country  clean. 
A  few  old  fishers  seemed  my  only  men, 
Some  aged  wives  their  queens,  not  seen  till  then 
Those  had  outsailed  the  wild,  o'er-heaving  seas, 
These  closely  nestled  in  their  old  roof-trees. 
Too  dull  to  mark,  they  eyed  me  without  harm ; 
Careless  of  alms,  I  was  not  their  alarm. 
The  aged  widow  in  her  cottage  lone, 
Of  solitude  and  musing  patient  grown, 
Could  let  me  wander  o'er  her  scanty  fields, 
And  pick  the  flower  that  contemplation  yields. 

141 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

Oft  had  she  sat  the  winter  storms  away, 
And  feared  the  sea,  and  trembled  at  its  play  ; 
Noticed  the  clouds,  and  guessed  when  storms  were 

nigh; 
Like  me,  alone,  far  from  humanity. 

Her  straw  all  plaited  and  her  day's  work  done, 
There  as  she  sat  she  saw  the  reddening  sun 
Drop  o'er  the  distant  cape,  and  felt  that  May 
Had  outbid  April  for  a  sweeter  day, 
And  dreamed  of  flowers  and  garden-work  to  do, 
And  half  resolved,  and  half  it  kept  in  view. 

This  census  o'er,  and  all  the  rest  was  mine. 
The  gliding  vessel  on  the  horizon's  line, 
That  left  the  world  wherein  my  fancy  strayed, 
Yet  long  enough  her  soft  good-by  delayed 
To  let  my  eye  engross  her  beauty  rare, 
Kissed  by  the  seas  and  mistress  of  the  air. 
That,  too,  was  mine— the  green  and  curling  wave, 
Child  of  the  sand— a  playful  child  and  brave  ; 
Urged  by  the  breeze,  the  crashing  surges  fall— 
Let  zephyrs  dance— and  silken  bubbles  all ; 
But  let  the  gale  lift  from  yon  Eastern  realm— 
No  more  the  ship  perceives  the  patient  helm  ; 
Tranced  in  the  tumbling  roar  she  whirls  away, 
A  shattered  ghost,  a  chip  for  thy  dread  play. 
142 


TRUKO,   ON   CAPE   COD 

Wild  ocean  wave  !  some  eyes  look  out  o'er  thee 
And  fill  with  tears,  and  ask,  Could  such  things  be  ? 
Why  slept  the  All-seeing  Eye  when  death  was 

near? 

Be  hushed  each  doubt,  assuage  each  troubled  fear  ! 
Think  One  who  made  the  sea  and  made  the  wind 
May  also  feel  for  our  poor  humankind ; 
And  they  who  sleep  amid  the  surges  tall 
Summoned  great  Nature  to  their  funeral, 
And  she  obeyed.    We  fall  not  far  from  shore ; 
The  seabird's  wail,  the  skies  our  fates  deplore  5 
The  melancholy  main  goes  sounding  on 
His  world-old  anthem  o'er  our  horizon. 


143 


POEMS  OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 
TRUEO 

A  REGRET 

vain  regret,  the  foolish,  wasted  tear, 
-I-   Old  memories,  and  most  my  thought  of  thee— 
Why  will  they  rise  and  darkly  haunt  me  here, 
Whilst  the  gay  blackbird  whistles  o'er  the  lea, 
And  water-lilies  shine,  and  the  blue  sea 
I  little  dream  of,  yonder  o'er  the  hill  f 

Alas  for  Hope  !  since  not  again  to  me 
Thy  form  shall  rise,  thy  life  my  being  thrill— 
Gone  as  thou  art— gone  and  forever  still. 

Forgive  this  weak  lament !  and  still  forgive 
In  our  past  days  a  foolish,  erring  man  ! 

And  yet  that  I  was  true  thou  must  believe— 
An  empty  heart  that  with  thy  life  o'erran, 
Creature  of  beauty— Nature's  rarest  plan  ! 

So  beautiful,  who  would  not  love  thee  near  * 
We  are  not  carved  in  stone.  The  day  that  ran 

Our  passion  into  form  why  should  we  fear  ? 

Nor  more  that  silent  Past,  closed  save  to  some 
cold  tear. 

Then  bloomed  the  flowers  along  Life's  sandy  waste, 
The  waters  sparkled  in  the  glancing  sun; 
144 


TRUKO 

And  Fate  for  thee  prepared  with  eager  haste 
The  festive  measure— sorrowful  to  one 
Who  on  thy  beauty  gazed,  but  could  not  run 

To  slake  his  thirst  at  that  unfathomed  spring ; 
But  feverish  looked,  and  only  looked  upon, 

While  Nature  hastened  with  her  queenly  ring 

And  crowned  thee  fairest— her  most  charming 
thing. 

Why  must  we  live  ?  why  pause  upon  this  shore  I 
Its  cold  despair  our  flying  souls  must  chill ; 

And,  sitting  lone,  I  hear  the  ocean's  roar, 

While  most  subdued  my  heart  and  wish  and  will— 
Like  its  unsounded  depths  my  hopes  are  still ; 

A  moment  I  may  pause,  and  ask  the  Past, 
Since  in  the  Present  frozen  is  Life's  rill, 

Had  she  no  joys  that  might  their  sunshine  cast 

On  these  Siberian  wastes  and  slippery  glaciers 
vast? 

Though  beauty  smile  not  on  a  wasted  heart, 
And  with  the  years  I  must  my  lot  deplore, 
Though  Love  be  distant,— Life  an  actor's  part, 
One  moment  moored,  then  sailing  off  the 

shore, — 

Still,  while  thy  thought  remains,  I  weep  no  more  ; 
For  in  thy  sweet  yet  artless  dignity, 

Thy  polished  mind,  in  Youth's  unlearned  lore, 
145 


POEMS   OF    SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

There  yet  remains  a  happiness  for  me. 
And  thee  I  still  remember,  Eosalie  ! 
Where  went  thou  straying,  when  the  heart  was 
young, 

And  green  the  leaf  swayed  on  Life's  bending 

tree  ? 
When  the  eye  saw,  and  nimbly  sped  the  tongue 

To  tell  of  stream  and  bird  and  heaving  sea— 

And  human  fate  glowed  for  eternity  ? 
Then  Hope  on  high  poised  her  romantic  scroll 

Where  poets'  years  are  writ— not  the  cold  plea 
For  having  lived  :  as  the  long  surges  roll 
Across  my  years,  now  but  my  knell  they  toll. 


146 


THE  PORTRAITS 

I.    JULIA 

JULIA— at  her  name  my  mind 
Throws  its  griefs  and  cares  behind 
She,  the  love  of  early  years, 
Smiling  through  her  childish  tears— 
Julia  !  child  of  love  and  pain, 
One  I  ne'er  shall  see  again. 

And  forgive  me,  Julia  dear, 
For  the  sins  of  that  long  year  ! 
Think  of  me  with  kindly  thought, 
And  condemn  me  not  for  naught. 

By  thine  eyes,  so  softly  brown, 
By  the  light  and  glistening  crown 
That  so  gently  o'er  thy  head 
Did  its  shining  lustre  shed  ; 
By  that  sad  yet  loving  mouth, 
Rose  of  fragrance  from  the  South  ; 
By  thy  form,  oh,  lovelier  far 
Than  a  seraph's  from  a  star ; 
By  that  ankle  small  and  neat, 
And  thy  little  twinkling  feet  ;— 
147 


POEMS  OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

I  must  still  thy  loss  deplore, 
Since  the  fatal  hour  sped  o'er 
When  we  parted,  ne'er  to  meet, 
On  the  silent  noontide  street. 

Should  I  live  a  thousand  years, 
I  cannot  forget  thee,— never,— 

Nor  the  hot  and  weary  tears 
That  I  shed,  from  thee  to  sever ; 

Never  will  thy  truthful  eyes 

Leave  me,  in  this  world  of  lies. 

Girl  of  love  and  graceful  youth, 

Girl  all  beauty,  girl  all  truth ! 

Spirit  clad  in  purer  air 

Than  Time's  hateful  fashions  wear ! 

Angel,  shining  through  my  dreams 

When  Youth,  Hope,  and  Joy  were  themes  ! 

Dead  seems  all  Youth's  memory, 

Save  one  thought— the  thought  of  thee. 

From  the  blossoms  of  the  Spring 
Beauty  wreathed  thee  in  her  ring  $ 
From  the  airs  of  dewy  skies 
Melted  sadness  in  those  eyes— 
Speechless,  soft  and  fearful  glances, 
Maidenhood's  enamoured  trances — 
Faintly  trembling,  dimly  felt, 
With  a  name  not  aptly  spelt. 
148 


THE   POETEAITS 

Now,  the  moods  of  passion  over, 
I  am  loved  by  none,  nor  lover ; 
'T  was  not  thus  when  Julia's  eye 
To  my  own  made  sweet  reply. 
Orphan  from  her  earliest  years, 
Cradled  on  a  couch  of  tears, 
Dark  as  Winter's  dreariest  night 
Was  her  lot— yet  she  was  light ; 
Never  closed  her  feeling's  spring, 
Faithful  life's  best  offering. 

Time  shall  never  wile  me  more 
On  its  dark,  its  frowning  shore." 
So  felt  I  for  Julia's  fate, 
Like  my  own,  most  desolate  ; 
Years  of  pain,  those  years  all  sorrow, 
To-day  wretched  as  to-morrow  ; 
Never  finished,  never  fast, 
Falling  slowly  to  the  Past— 
What  a  youth  was  this  to  me, 
Born  for  love  and  sympathy  ! 

There  was  sorrow  in  her  air, 
Sweetness  married  to  despair, 
In  her  mouth,  that  would  have  laughed 
And  Love's  ruby  vintage  quaffed ; 
In  her  softly  shaded  cheek, 
Where  Love  could  his  vengeance  wreak ; 
149 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

In  her  sweet,  entrancing  eye, 

Whence  Love's  arrows  sought  to  fly  : 

Could,  then,  Fortune  frame  a  creature 

Perfect  so  in  every  feature  ? 

Beauteous  as  the  dove's  soft  wing, 

Or  a  fountain  of  the  Spring, 

Or  the  sunset  as  it  sinks, 

While  the  Night  its  radiance  drinks 

For  a  glowing  beverage, 

Nectar  of  Day's  purple  age  : 

Could  Fortune,  mocking  her,  declare 

Lovely  Julia  to  despair  ? 

Such  dark  mystery  is  life, 

This  debate  'twixt  sleep  and  strife. 

But  thy  heart  grew  never  old ! 
Naught  was  there  save  sunset's  gold, 
Crimson  evenings,  blushing  mornings, 
And  all  Nature's  wise  adornings. 

Where  art  fled  ne'er  have  I  heard ; 
In  this  earthly  state  ?     No  word. 
Art  still  near  the  wide  blue  river 
That  beyond  the  meads  doth  quiver? 
Or  beneath  yon  mountain's  shade, 
By  the  murmuring  chestnut  glade  f 
Shadow  of  departed  years, 
Draped  in  Beauty,  draped  in  Tears, 
150 


THE   PORTRAITS 

Where,  across  life's  shadowy  main, 
Child  of  sweetness,  child  of  pain  ! 
Art  thou  drifting,  then,  to-day? 
Dearest  Julia,  to  me  say  ! 

II.      GRACE 

GRACE  was  perfect,  fresh,  and  fair, 
Cheerful  as  a  mountain  air  ; 
Blithely  fearless,  glad  and  free, 
Pouting  lips,  with  hazel  ee. 
O'er  her  firm-set  figure  played 
Charms  to  make  a  saint  afraid ; 
To  this  magnet  strong  and  sweet 
Swift  my  willing  steps  must  fleet. 
Grace  was  all  a  paragon— 
Oh,  she  drew  me  like  a  sun ! 

Round  about  her  valley  lie 
Purple  mountains  on  the  sky, 
And  within  her  valley's  fold 
Lakes  that  set  no  price  in  gold, 
Tracks  that  climb  the  crag  and  glen, 
And  a  race  of  frugal  men. 

Buoyant,  wilful,  frank,  and  gay, 
Grace  ne'er  lived  a  wretched  day— 
Joy  of  parents,  loved  by  all, 
Warmed  and  cheered  her  father's  hall. 
151 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

Years  of  sadness  now  thrown  over. 
Once  again  was  I  a  lover  ; 
Laughed  again  the  lake's  low  shore, 
Laughed  the  hilltops  ten  times  more, 
And  the  birches  in  the  wood 
Fluttered  midst  the  solitude. 
"Grace  was  lovely,  Grace  was  fine— 
Could  not  Grace,  dear  Grace,  be  mine  $ " 

Many  times  around  my  light, 
Darting  at  the  centre  bright, 
Have  I  viewed  a  wretched  moth 
Singe  his  feather,  by  my  troth. 
I  had  wept  and  I  had  loved— 
Frail  and  fatal  all  it  proved ; 
Might  have  known  it  ne'er  could  be— 
Might  have  guessed  she  hated  me  ! 

Girl  of  Life's  determined  hours, 
Clad  in  glory  as  the  flowers, 
Virginal  as  Venus  came 
From  the  sea  at  Morning's  flame, 
All  a  sunny,  fond  surprise, 
With  her  wealth  of  hazel  eyes— 
She  was  not,  if  I  was,  poor,— 
Parents  prudent,— life  in  store,— 
Could  I  sing  her  virtues  more  ? 
152 


THE   POKTBAITS 

Grace  had  beauty,  Grace  had  truth— 
Well  I  loved  her  in  my  youth  ! 
And  she  taught  me  a  fine  word— 
This  (I  might  have  elsewhere  heard)  : 
That  not  all  I  wish  is  mine— 
What  I  have  should  seem  divine. 

III.      MADELINE 

MANY  days  have  never  made 
Me  forget  that  oak's  green  shade 
Under  which,  in  Autumn  fair, 
While  October  gilt  the  air, 
Madeline  was  musing  lone 
On  a  cold  and  mossy  stone. 
Below  her  feet  the  river  ran 
Like  the  fleeting  hopes  of  Man ; 
Around,  the  unshorn  grasses  high, 
O'er  her  head  the  deep  blue  sky ; 
Best  of  all  was  Madeline, 
Gypsy  figure,  tall  and  fine. 
Yes,  and  she  was  Nature's  child  : 
Airs  and  skies  to  her  were  mild  ; 
Never  breeze  her  thoughts  perturbed, 
Never  storm  her  cheek  disturbed. 

In  her  skiff  she  glided  o'er 
Foaming  crests  that  swiftly  bore 
Her  to  the  many-wooded  shore  j 
153 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE   YEARS 

In  her  bark,  far  o'er  the  tide, 
Madeline  would  smoothly  glide 
On  the  wild  and  whirling  wave, 
In  blasts  that  'gainst  the  islands  rave, 
Madeline  swept  'neath  the  sky— 
Born  of  Nature,  but  more  high. 

Child  of  grace,  to  Nature  dear, 
Be  the  sky  her  broad  compeer ! 
Lists  her  song  the  sighing  wood, 
Where  she  like  a  statue  stood, 
But  with  low  and  heartfelt  voice 
That  could  bid  my  soul  rejoice  ; 
Be  her  light  yon  star  so  keen, 
Pure  and  distant,  Heaven's  Queen  ; 
Let  the  sea,  the  boundless  sea, 
Her  perpetual  anthem  be, 
While  the  gray  gull  wets  his  wing 
To  the  green  waves'  murmuring, 
And  the  white  beach  lines  the  shore 
In  its  sandy  curvature. 

Sinful  cities  not  in  her 
Could  a  feeble  passion  stir ; 
Filled  with  love,  her  lyric  eye 
Gave  its  figure  to  the  sky  5 
Like  a  lyre,  her  heart  obeyed 
Whispers  of  the  forest  shade, 
154 


THE   PORTRAITS 

Buds  she  sang,  and  fresh  spring  flowers, 
Birds  that  carolled  in  her  bowers, 
And  the  lonely,  sorrowing  sea, 
Still  she  sang  its  lullaby. 

Slave  to  each  impulsive  hour, 
How  could  I  resist  her  power  ? 
Or  not  kneel  and  worship  there, 
When  she  tinged  the  Autumn  air 
With  her  joy  or  with  her  pain— 
Lit  the  chill  October  rain 
O'er  the  low  and  sullen  hill 
(Outlined,  if  the  hour  were  still, 
By  some  leaden  cloud  behind) 
With  its  scanty  grasses  lined, 
Serely  russet,  as  the  day, 
Hermit-like,  went  out  in  gray.1 

Muse  of  the  Island,  pure  and  free  ! 
Spirit  of  the  sapphire  sea  ! 
How  can  I  forget  the  time 
We  went  wandering  in  our  prime, 
And  beneath  the  tall  pine-trees 
Felt  the  tearful  Autumn  breeze  ? 


i  This  passage  shows  a  clear  reminiscence  of  the  happy  days  at  Curzon's 
Mill,  and  that  region  where  young  Channing  spent  so  much  time,  and 
where  the  best  of  his  early  poems  were  written.  These  portraits  are  much 
idealized,  but  traces  of  several  of  his  youthful  friends  may  be  found  in 
them.  The  Julia  afterward  mentioned  as  buried  in  Plymouth  was  a  dif 
ferent  person;  but  possibly  an  earlier  Julia  was  the  Sibylla  of  The 
Wanderer. 

155 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

Hope  had  I  of  lofty  fame 
To  embalm  a  poet's  name, 
In  some  grandly  festive  measure 
Fitliest  for  a  nation's  pleasure  : 
Thus  it  was  I  dreamed  at  first— 
Madeline  !  thy  beauty  nursed 
In  me  finer  thought  and  feeling, 
To  myself  my  heart  revealing. 

Ghost  of  wishes  dead  and  gone, 
Haunting  hopes  still  limping  on,— 
Echoes  from  a  sunken  land 
Falling  on  a  desert  strand,— 
Cold  content  and  broken  plan— 
Still  the  boy  lives  in  the  man  ! 

IV.      CONSTANTIA 

BEST  of  all  Constantia  proved— 
Best  of  all  her  truth  I  loved  ; 
Free  as  air  and  fixed  as  Fate, 
Fitted  for  a  hero's  mate. 
Beauty  dear  Constantia  had, 
Fit  to  make  a  lover  mad  • 
Every  grace  she  ?d  gently  turn 
Strong  to  do  and  swift  to  learn  ; 
Truthful  as  the  twilight  sky 
Was  her  melting,  lustrous  eye— 
156 


THE   PORTRAITS 

Full  of  sweetness  as  the  South 
Was  her  firm  and  handsome  mouth. 

Child  of  conscience,  child  of  truth,— 
Treasures  far  outlasting  youth,— 
"Would  my  verse  had  but  the  power 
Again  to  shape  that  brightest  hour 
When  beneath  the  shadowy  tree 
First  I  pressed  the  hand  of  thee  ! 
While  the  sighing  summer  wind 
Toned  its  murmur  through  the  mind, 
And  the  moon  shined  clear  above, 
Smiling  chaste,  like  those  we  love. 

I  can  ne'er  be  loved  again 
As  I  was  on  that  sweet  plain, 
Though  I  sigh  for  fourscore  years, 
Watering  all  Earth's  sands  with  tears. 
I  am  old— my  life  is  sere  ; 
Beauty  never  can  appear 
As  it  was  when  I  was  young, 
Love  and  joy  upon  my  tongue. 
Give  me  Passion,  give  me  Youth  ! 
More  than  all,  oh,  give  me  Truth ! 
Let  the  beauties  steal  my  heart 
In  their  deep,  entrancing  art- 
Yet  the  safer  shalt  thou  prove, 
Dear  Constantia  !  in  my  love. 
157 


POEMS   OF    SIXTY-FIVE   YEAES 

How  the  feverish  glances  fly 
Off  the  dark,  the  laughing  eye  ! 
Mark  the  brown  and  braided  hair, 
To  weak  hearts  a  fearful  snare. 
I  have  seen  the  Southern  skies 
Shut  their  soft,  love-laden  eyes, 
Seen  the  floor  of  those  calm  seas 
Rippled  by  the  orange -breeze  ; 
But  I  fled  such  azure  dreams 
For  thy  frozen  Northern  streams. 

If  my  heart  is  growing  old, 
Thine  is  neither  worn  nor  cold ; 
If  my  life  has  lost  its  flower, 
Thine  still  wears  its  crimson  dower, 
And  the  early  morning  beam 
Pulsates  on  its  golden  stream. 

May  a  cold,  sepulchral  breeze 
Every  feeling  in  me  freeze, 
Stab  me  through  and  through  with  pain, 
If  I  ever  love  again  ! 
More— let  all  the  Graces  go, 
And  the  Muses  thickly  sow 
Harsh  and  crabbed  seed  all  o'er 
Helicon's  harmonious  shore,— 
Subtle  Venus  snap  her  zone, 
Phoebus  carve  me  into  stone,— 
158 


THE   POKTBAITS 

If  I  leave  Constantia's  side  ! 

My  joy  and  hope,  my  peace,  my  pride. 

V.      EMERSON 

(1857) 

HERE  sometimes  gliding  in  his  peaceful  skiff 
Clim6ne  sails,  heir  of  the  world,  and  notes 
In  his  perception,  that  no  thing  escapes, 
Each  varying  pulse  along  Life's  arteries— 
Both  what  she  half  resolves  and  half  effects, 
As  well  as  her  whole  purpose.     To  his  eye 
The  silent  stars  of  many  a  midnight  heaven 
Have  beamed  tokens  of  love,  types  of  the  Soul, 
And  lifted  him  to  more  primeval  natures. 
In  those  far-moving  barks  on  heaven's  sea 
Eadiates  of  force  he  saw  ;  and  while  he  moved 
From  man,  on  the  eternal  billow,  still  his  heart 
Beat  with  some  natural  fondness  for  his  race. 

In  other  lands  they  might  have  worshipped  him  ; 
Nations  had  stood  and  blocked  their  chariot  wheels 
At  his  approach— towns  stooped  beneath  his  foot ! 
But  here,  in  our  vast  wilderness,  he  walks 
Alone— if 't  is  to  be  alone  when  stars 
And  breath  of  summer  mountain  airs  and  morn 
And  the  wild  music  of  the  untempered  sea 
Consort  with  human  genius. 
159 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE   YEARS 

Oh,  couldst  not  thou  revere,  bold  stranger  (prone 
Inly  to  smile  and  chide  at  human  power), 
Our  humble  fields  and  lowly  stooping  hills, 
When  thou  shalt  learn  that  here  Climene  trod  I 

VI.     THOEEAU 

(1857) 

I  SEE  Kudolpho  cross  our  honest  fields, 

Collapsed  with  thought,  cool  as  the  Stagirite 

At  intellectual  problems  ;  mastering 

Day  after  day  part  of  the  world's  concern  j 

Still  adding  to  his  list  beetle  and  bee— 

Of  what  the  Vireo  builds  a  pensile  nest, 

And  why  the  Peetweet  drops  her  giant  egg 

In  wheezing  meadows  odorous  with  sweet  brake. 

Nor  welcome  dawns  nor  shrinking  nights  him 

menace, 

Still  girt  about  for  observation,  yet 
Keen  to  pursue  the  devious  lanes  that  lead 
To  knowledge  oft  so  dearly  bought. 

Who  wonders  that  the  flesh  declines  to  grow 
Along  his  sallow  pits  ;  or  that  his  life, 
To  social  pleasure  careless,  pines  away 
In  dry  seclusion  and  unfruitful  shade? 
Martyr  !  for  eye  too  sharp  and  ear  too  fine  ! 
I  must  admire  thy  brave  apprenticeship 
160 


THE   PORTRAITS 

To  these  dry  forages,  although  the  worldling 
Laugh  in  his  sleeve  at  thy  compelled  devotion, 
And  would  declare  an  accidental  stroke 
Surpassed  whole  eons  of  Rudolpho's  file. 
Yet  shalt  thou  learn,  Rudolpho,  as  thou  walkst, 
More  from  the  winding  lanes  where  Nature  leaves 
Her  unaspiring  creatures,  and  surpass 
In  some  fine  saunter  her  declivity. 

VII.      ROSALBA 

WITH  thee,  fathomless  Ocean,  that  dear  child 

I  link— a  summer  child,  flower  of  the  world, 

Rosalba !  for,  like  thee,  she  has  no  bound 

Or  limit  to  her  beauty  ;  Venus-zoned, 

She  rather,  like  thy  billows,  bends  with  grace. 

Nor  deem  the  Grecian  fable  all  a  myth, 

That  Aphrodite  from  a  shell  appeared, 

Soft  spanned  upon  the  wave  ;  for  o'er  thy  heart, 

Unheeding  stranger  !  thus  Rosalba  falls, 

And  by  one  entrance  on  thy  privacy 

Unrolls  the  mysteries  and  gives  them  tongue. 

Child  of  the  poet's  thought !  if  ever  God 
Made  any  creature  that  could  thee  surpass,— 
The  lightest  sunset  cloud  that  purpling  swims 
Across  the  zenith's  lake,— the  foam  of  seas,— 
The  roses  when  they  paint  the  green  sand-wastes 
161 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEAKS 

Of  our  remotest  Cape,— or  the  hour  near  dawn,— 
I  cannot  fathom  it ;  nor  how  thou  art  made  : 
How  these  attempered  elements  in  the  mass 
Run  to  confusion  and  exhale  in  fault,— 
Begetting  monstrous  passions  and  dark  thoughts, 
Or  slow  contriving  malice,  or  cold  spite, 
Or  leagues  of  dulness,  self-persuaded  rare,— 
But  rise  in  thee  like  the  vast  Ocean's  grace, 
Ne'er  to  be  bounded  by  my  heart  or  hope, 
Yet  ever  decorous,  modest,  and  complete. 

Hose  on  her  cheeks,  are  roses  in  her  heart, 
And  softer  on  the  earth  her  footstep  falls 
Than  earliest  twilight  airs  across  the  wave  ; 
While  in  her  heart  the  unfathomed  sea  of  love 
Its  never-ceasing  tide  pours  onward. 

VIII.      A   HOUSEHOLD   FRIEND 
(December  15,  1866) 

IF  the  winter  skies  be  o'er  us, 
And  the  winter  months  before  us, 
When  the  tempest,  Boreal  falling, 
Hurls  his  icy  bolts  appalling, 
Let  us  yet  thy  soul  inherit, 
Equable  and  nice  in  spirit ! 
Whom  in  turbulent  December 
With  still  peace  we  can  remember. 
162 


THE   PORTRAITS 

Muses  should  thy  birthday  reckon 
As  to  one  their  foretastes  beckon ; 
Who  in  thought  and  action  never 
Could  the  right  from  self  dissever ; 
Taken  with  no  serpent  charming, 
By  no  tyranny's  alarming  ; 
In  thy  sure  conviction  better 
Than  in  blurred  Tradition's  fetter ; 
Would  the  State  such  souls  might  cherish, 
And  her  liberties  ne'er  perish  ! 

Age  must  dart  no  frost  to  harm  thee, 
Fell  reverses  ne'er  alarm  thee, 
Having  that  within  thy  being 
Still  the  good  in  evil  seeing  ; 
Faithful  heart  and  faithful  doing 
Bring  Life's  forces  humbly  suing. 

Now  we  bid  the  dear  Penates 
(Inward  guardians  with  whom  Fate  is) 
And  the  Lar,  whose  altar  naming 
From  thy  household  merits  naming, 
And  Vertumnus  we  solicit, 
Whose  return  brings  no  deficit, 
Bacchus  with  his  ivy  thyrses, 
And  Pomona's  friendly  verses, 
Or  what  other  joys  may  be 
Pouring  from  Antiquity : 
163 


POEMS   OF    SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

Let  them  o'er  thy  roof,  displaying 
Happiest  stars,  stand  brightly  raying  ! 

In  thy  thought  poetic  splendor 
This  late  age  spontaneous  render, 
Shed  o'er  acts  of  love  divine, 
Fit  for  thee  and  fit  for  thine  ! 


IX.      SYBILLA 

IN  the  proud  mansion  on  the  city  street, 
Strewed  with  the  loans  of  luxury,  that  Time 
Wafts  down  overpowering  from  the  burdened 

Past- 
Homeless  and  hopeless  in  those  cruel  walls 
Sybilla  went— her  heart  long  since  bereaved. 
She  heard  the  footfalls  sear  the  crowded  streets,— 
Her  fatal  birthright,— where  no  human  pulse 
To  hers  was  beating ;  there  she  shunned  the  day  ! 

Tall  churches  and  rich  houses  draped  in  flowers, 
And  lovely  maids  tricked  out  with  pearls  and  gold, 
Barbaric  pomp  !  and  crafty  usurers  bent- 
All  passed  she  by,  the  terror  in  her  soul ; 
Then  sped  she  on  her  flight— a  reindeer-course. 
Day's  dying  light  painted  the  quiet  fields, 
The  pale  green  sky  reflected  in  their  pools,— 
164 


THE    POETEAITS 

A  soft,  clear  light,— and  in  that  heaven  afar 
O'er  emerald  waters  glowed  the  evening  star. 
Oh,  why  was  Earth  so  fair  ?  was  love  so  fond 
Ever  consumed  within  its  ring  of  fire  I 


X.      JULIA   OF   PLYMOUTH 

SOCIAL  and  warm  the  ruddy  curtains  fall 
Around  the  dreamy  casements ;  till  the  roar 
Of  the  continuous  surf  upon  the  ledge 
That  shores  the  ocean's  ingress,  whispering  lulls, 
And  Fancy  brings  the  forms  of  other  days. 

O  loved  and  gone  !  the  darling  of  our  hearts, 
With  thy  soft,  winning  ways,  caressing  smiles, 
And  step  more  light  than  tracks  the  forest  fawn  ; 
Who  taught  the  old  how  kind  the  young  might  be  ! 
How  often  thy  slight  figure,  wandering  o'er 
The  breezy  lawn,  or  couched  within  the  shade, 
Made  sweeter  music  than  all  sounds  beside  ! 

Gone— oh,  forever  gone  !  alone  she  sleeps 
Upon  the  hillside  looking  o'er  the  sea  ; 

Alone  f  when  every  heart,  full  of  thy  worth, 
Enchanting  Julia  !  sends  its  love  to  thee  ? 


165 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

EPITHALAMIUM 

(1862) 

T7KIEND  !  in  thy  new  relation 
-T    There  is  no  provocation 

For  Thought's  demise  ; 
Be  all  more  nobly  brave  ! 
Assist  each  slave. 
And  yet  more  share 
Thy  hours  and  thoughts  and  care 

With  others, 

Thy  kinsmen  and  thy  brothers  ! 

And  more  a  patriot  be 

Through  Love's  wise  chemistry  ! 

Long  have  I  watched  thee  rule 

Thyself;  and  if  a  still 

And  lustrous  guardian  school 

Thee  to  a  stiller  patience  now, 
In  this  dear  vow, 
And  nearer  to  the  stars 
(Save  that  all-reddening  Mars), 

More  consonant  with  the  train 

Of  evening  and  sweet  Hesperus, 
And  her  who  walks  the  night, 
In  blushing  radiance  strayed, 
166 


EPITHALAMIUM 

A  well-proportioned  light, 

A  sea-born  maid, 
Who  from  old  Ocean's  foam 
Laughed,  and  made  men  at  home  ; 

In  truth,  if  this  prove  so,— 

If  her  soft  beams 

Silver  the  rushing  streams, 

And  gild  the  moss 
Where  the  ancestral  brothers  toss— 
Dark  oaks  and  murmuring  pines, 
Stags  of  a  thousand  tines  ; 

These  rocks  so  grave,  if  they 

Smile  with  humected  day, 

And  silken  zephyrs  thrill 
The  maple's  foliage,  where  the  bird 

Kose-breasted  rings 

With  Music's  clearest  springs,— 
What  then? 

Though  softer,  we  're  still  men  ! 


167 


POEMS  OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 


TO-MOEEOW  AND  TO-MOEEOW  AND 
TO-MOEEOW 

mO-MOEEOW  comes?  dost  say,  my  Friend, 
A    "  To-morrow  "  ? 

Far  down  below  those  pines  the  sunset  flings, 
Long  arching  o'er,  its  lines  of  ruddy  light ; 
And  the  wind  murmurs  little  harmonies, 
And  underneath  their  wings  the  tender  birds 
Droop  their  averted  heads— silent  their  song. 

But  not  a  word  whispers  the  moaning  wind- 
Not  when  in  faint  array  the  primal  stars 
Trail  with  the  banners  of  the  unfurled  Night  ; 
Nor  even  when  the  low-hung  moon  just  glints, 
And  faintly,  with  few  touches,  sears  the  wood ; 

Not  there,  not  then,  doth  Nature  idly  say, 

Nor  whisper  idly  of  another  day ; 

That  other  morn  itself  its  morrow  is  ; 

That  other  day  shall  see  no  shade  of  this. 


168 


THE  ICE   RAVINE 

NEVER  was  the  sight  more  gay : 
Down  the  rapid  water  flows  ; 
Deep  the  ravine's  rondelay, 

Stealing  up  the  silent  snows. 
Like  an  organ's  carved  woodwork, 

Richly  waxed,  the  ice-tubes  stand ; 
In  them  hidden  stops  do  lurk, 
And  I  see  the  Master's  hand. 


Swift  his  fingers  strike  the  keys, 

Glittering  all  with  rings  of  light ; 
Bubbles  break,  and,  born  with  ease, 

Sparkle  constant,  swift,  and  bright 
Now  upon  the  rocks  the  roar 

Of  the  streamlet  beats  the  bass, 
Deeply  murmuring  through  the  floor 

Of  sparse  snow  and  frozen  grass. 

Red  as  ruby  wine  the  hue 

Of  this  running  brook,  that  brings 
Through  the  ice  ravine  this  true 

Music  for  the  native  kings. 
169 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

Solemn  stands  the  Ash-tree  near, 
Not  one  leaf  upon  his  crown ; 

Still  the  Barberry,  still  the  clear 
Landscape  of  the  meadows  brown. 

Thus  they  listen  every  day ; 

Wind  may  roar,  and  rain  may  run  j 
Clear  or  dull,  the  streamlet's  play 

Sounds  that  music— All  in  One. 


170 


MEMORIES   OF   FANNY   McGEEGOR 

This  poem  recalls  a  voyage  down  Boston  Harbor  in  company  with  Miss 
McGregor  during  the  Civil  War.  She  was,  not  long  after,  accidentally 
shot  near  Franconia,  in  the  New  Hampshire  mountain-land.  A  person 
of  great  beauty  and  wit,  perhaps  exalted  poetically  in  this  tribute. 

WE  felt  the  shadows  build  the  Fort, 
And  touch  Cohassett's  withering  hills  ; 
The  breeze  that  cooled  our  Boston  port 
Ean  fresh,  as  leap  the  mountain  rills 
Down  gray  Franconia's  hoary  woods, 
Saved  from  the  axe,  dear  solitudes. 

The  sky's  deep  blue  adorned  the  Flag, 
That  pathos  of  our  nation's  cause, 

Battled  in  blood  from  sea  to  crag, 

For  home  and  hearth,  for  life  and  laws  : 

Lovelier  than  all,  a  woman's  heart, 

Eeflecting  all,  and  taking  part. 


How  void  the  play  still  Nature  makes 
Where  thrills  no  breast  with  human  fear  ! 

Dull  sets  that  sun— no  wavelet  breaks 
Till  woman's  loveliness  appear ; 

Heat  of  the  light  we  coldly  bear, 

The  radiant  of  Time's  atmosphere. 
171 


POEMS  OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

O  lovely  day  that  died  so  soon, 

Live  long  in  Her,  more  fairly  planned ! 

And  like  the  sea  when  shines  the  moon, 
Reflecting  in  its  ebb  the  hand 

Inscrutable  that  flings  the  star, 

Thy  beauty  leads  my  thoughts  afar. 

To  thee  respond  the  dancing  waves, 
To  thee  the  grace-encircled  shore, 

Whose  lonely  sands  old  Ocean  laves 
And  pebbles  bright  flows  lisping  o'er ; 

Thy  tranquil  heart  was  ever  bent 

In  beauty  to  be  eloquent. 

From  envious  skies  thy  star  shines  down, 
Not  unacquainted  with  its  place  ; 

They  wreathe  for  thee  an  angel's  crown, 
And  gem  the  virtues  of  thy  face. 

Ah,  fated  shot !  devoid  of  power 

O'er  her  whose  beauty  was  her  dower ! 

Called  from  the  voice  of  life,  the  tasks  of  pain, 

Thine  eye  no  more  the  rounding  day  shalt  see 
In  sunlit  hours  or  chill  and  sobbing  rain ; 

Nor  we  hear  trace  of  old-time  melody 
That  told  in  music  of  another  shore, 
Where  rests  Time's  mournful  wave,  ne'er  breaking 
more. 

172 


THE   LATE-FOUND   FEIEND 

(1901) 

A  LL,  all  had  long-time  gone  ; 
JLA.  On  Earth's  wide  bound  I  wandered  lone, 
By  sweeping  waves,  whose  glittering  tides 
Once  safely  o'er,  no  sailor  rides— 
When  out  of  that  soft  greensward  shore 
I  saw  a  vessel  steer  once  more, 
And  at  her  prow  a  tall,  straight  form ; 
7T  was  Margaret,  poised  so  high  above  Earth's 
storm ! 

Simple  and  sweet  she  surely  is 

As  opening  dawn  or  day's  last  look  ; 
Within  her  heart,  within  her  eyes, 

Meet  all  the  charms  of  mead  and  brook, 
When  rings  amid  the  open  fields 

That  dear,  delightful  strain  along — 
Great  Nature's  heart  in  little  birds, 

Piping  their  unmaterial  song. 

Late  in  the  deep  and  dying  night, 

When  sounds  are  still,  and  frozen  the  moor, 
There  echoes,  far  from  human  plight, 

The  cottage  curs'  unceasing  roar  ; 
173 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEAES 

Then,  in  that  strange  funereal  pall 

That  veils  the  Earth  and  hides  the  skies, 

I  seem  to  hear  a  note  that  falls 
Sweeter  than  tidings  of  surprise. 

I  need  not  ask— I  do  not  stay  j 

'T  is  Margaret's  voice— no  other  sound 

Could  ever  wake  a  rondelai 

Within  this  heart  by  Sorrow  bound. 

"Wanderer  of  pain  !  I  am  a  truth  to  be 
For  those  I  stoop  to,  mercy  to  implore ; 
A  certain  lighthouse  on  Earth's  murky  shore  j 
O  God !  I  kneel  and  ask  that  those  in  me 
May  trust  their  heart's  best  love  implicitly— 
Trust  and  believe— see  in  my  soul  their  own, 
As  one  sweet  viol  clears  another's  tone." 

So  from  the  drooping  skies 
The  quicker  lightning  flies, 
And  makes  our  shadowed  hearts  bright  'neath 

those  lovely  eyes. 
For  whom  now  would  you  raise  the  tower  of 

Scorn? 

Now  when  yon  azure  distances,  upborne 
In  their  far-shadowed  folds  of  ruby  light, 
Pale  and  grow  gloomy  as  the  wondrous  Night 
Pours  forth  her  stream  of  stars  o'er  Heaven's 

deep  sea, 

And  mocks  our  wandering,  far  Futurity. 
174 


THE   SAGE 

(EMERSON) 

(1897) 

WHEN  I  was  young  I  knew  a  sage— 
A  man  he  was  of  middle  age  ; 
Clear  was  his  mind  as  forest  brooks, 
And  reams  of  wisdom  in  his  looks. 

But  if  I  asked  this  sage-like  man 
Questions  of  wisdom  in  my  plan, 
Faintly  the  smile  shed  o'er  his  face, 
A  beam  of  joy,  a  smile  of  grace. 

The  answer  that  I  needed  bad 
Ne'er  reached  my  ear,  nor  gay  nor  sad ; 
"That  might  be  so,"  the  sage  would  say, 
Exactly  flat  as  mere  "  Good  day." 

Within  his  mind  there  seemed  to  be 
A  fixed  reserve,  a  pleasant  lea  : 
"Not  I— I  cannot  mend  your  state," 
To  Yes,  to  No,  inveterate. 

To  all  alike  he  charming  was  ; 
His  words  were  wise  in  Virtue's  cause ; 
Distinct,  clear-minded—old  and  young 
Upon  his  words  in  rapture  hung. 
175 


POEMS   OF   SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

"Come  to  my  woods,  come  to  my  fields  ! 
There  Nature  her  revision  yields  ; 
These  things  were  made  to  be  enjoyed— 
Great  is  the  pleasure,  great  the  reward. 

"Unnumbered  shine  the  nightly  flowers, 
To  man  the  wonder  of  his  hours  ; 
The  heavens  themselves  invite  his  gaze, 
Those  actors  in  their  native  plays." 

Forth  went  he,  armed,  to  see  the  world ; 
Love  was  his  weapon— joy  it  hurled ; 
Yet  ne'er  a  word  he  spoke  of  them— 
Silent,  yet  shining  like  a  gem. 


176 


WELCOME   TO  THEE  NOT  GONE 

(A    TRIBUTE    TO    MARSTON   WATSON, 
WRITTEN  IN  1899) 


my  early  years  !  friend  of  my  hours 
-T    Fast  fading  from  these  shores,  from  Time's 

dim  bowers  ! 

The  same  to-day,—  e'er  living  in  my  mind,— 
Sweet,  thoughtful,  tender,  patient  to  thy  kind— 
Marston,  I  would  not  weep  that  thou  art  gone, 
Leaving  me  hapless  on  these  shores  alone  ; 
Dear  Heart,  I  will  not  grieve,  since  God  allowed 
So  vast  a  tribute  and  a  soul  so  proud  ; 
Since  thou  wert  sent  to  teach  me  to  forget, 
By  these  low  shores  where  my  poor  voyage  was 

set, 

These  steep  obliquities  that  shade  my  path, 
While  thy  far-reaching  view  o'ergoes  their 

wrath. 

Marston  !  I  see  thee  still—  that  far-off  look 
Away,  across  the  skies,  the  ever-rolling  brook, 
Or  that  dark,  troubled  Sea  among  the  isles  ; 
The  breeze  blows  up  ;  the  flowers,  the  heavens, 

all  smiles. 

Smiling  we  take  our  way  across  the  tombs, 
Stand  on  the  hilltop,  hear  the  rushing  looms 
177 


POEMS   OF  SIXTY-FIVE  YEARS 

In  the  long  valley  nestling  at  our  feet ; 
Scan  the  vast  basin  where  the  heavens  meet 
Their  own  blue  pageant,  sent  from  skies  to  greet  j 
Marston  delights  in  all— or  sandy  reach, 
Or  sparkling  billows  on  the  Gurnet  beach  ; 
The  poorest  weed,  the  smallest  fly  that  waves, 
To  him  the  same  as  the  great  Heroes'  graves. 

"I  am  not  gone ;  I  live— I  'm  with  thee  still ! 
I  stand  off-looking  from  the  windy  hill 
With  thee  ;  't  is  just  the  same  j  weep  not  for  me  ! 
I  murmur  in  the  breeze,  I  sail  upon  the  sea  j 
I  see  with  far-off  look  the  westering  sun 
Play  o'er  the  oak-groves  when  the  day  is  done. 
No,  not  a  tear  !  let  us  be  cheerful  now  ! 
I  am  not  dead— why,  what  a  thought !  my  vow 
Was  always  sped  to  life  ;  in  Death's  lone  camp 
I  do  not  walk  alone  ;  I  have  my  lamp, 
My  steadfast  light,  burning  from  ancient  shades, 
Eternal  remnants  from  prophetic  glades. 

"The  breezes  fan  my  cheek  ;  I  am  not  dead ; 
My  soul  has  only  waved  its  wings  and  fled 
From  these  low-hanging  equinoctial  storms  ; 
Hail,  Heaven  and  life  !  hail,  gods  and  sempiternal 
forms ! " 


178 


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Slip- 


Series  458 


352645 


PS 1290 
Charming,  W.E.          P8 

Poems  of  sixty- five 
years . 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF   CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


